The Penrose Backroom
by MidnightBlast
Summary: 1930's Chicago Prohibition/Speakeasy AU. When Ariadne's roommate returns from work with an invitation from a Mr. Eames to the Backroom of the Penrose Hotel, the last thing Ariadne expected was to end up in the arms of Arthur St. Clair.
1. The last

**So here we go again. The men and women of 'Inception' have officially taken over my brain. **

**I'm really going to make an effort to respond to all reviewers, so all comments/suggestions are most welcome. **

**This 1903's-Prohibition-Speakeasy-Gangster AU just made sense to me. I hope you enjoy it!**

**Chapter 1: The last **

The line on the page still wasn't quite right. Ariadne's brows furrowed, unconsciously biting her tongue as she erased the line, trying again to make it fit. She wasn't sure how many hours had passed, but this was going to be worth it. The bank across from her apartment had always caught her eye, and with the rainy Sunday afternoon, it seemed the perfect time to try her hand at sketching.

She frowned at the paper, pulling back with a sigh, still not satisfied. Trying not to get discouraged, she turned to the window, glancing out at the gray, water soaked city. Even after three years, Chicago was still fascinating. Such a far cry from her simple midwest Missouri roots. And somehow she and Jillian had managed to secure a low-rent little apartment, and maintain somewhat steady jobs. Sure, money was tight and they didn't live an extravagant life, but having a roof over her head and some food in her stomach were just enough.

Her eyes landed on the sleek black car that pulled up to the curb beneath the glittering sign on the street corner, admitting a man in a sharp pinstripe suit. But it was the woman that struck Ariadne the most. Her hair was in tight blonde curls under a fashionable feathery headband, and her dress was a sparkly ruby red to match her lips. Jealousy welled as she continued to watch the couple gaily stroll into the bank, happy in their life of obvious luxury.

She guessed it must have been quite the life. Wearing such fine clothes, eating such excellent food, always staying warm and cozy at night. Her eyes darted across the room, landing on the radiator, listening to the telltale moan of the dying, heated pipe. She sighed disappointedly, knowing that she and Jillian were in for a chilly night. Ariadne suspected the landlord was lying when he admitted to forgetting to light the furnace flame, but luckily his wife made knitted blankets that were available for a hefty $3 apiece.

Abandoning her sketch for a closer inspection, she rose from the table, hoping to be proven wrong. The hissing radiator was too hot to the touch at the moment, and she kneeled on the floor, listening for the steady wail of steam in the supply pipe. Her sprits fell as the ensuing silence was quickly drowned out by approaching footsteps.

"Ariadne?" Jillian's familiar voice rang out as the front door hinges squeaked.

"Welcome back, Jillian." Ariadne didn't move from her position on the floor, still trying to discern if heat was flowing.

"Did Peter 'forget' to light the furnace again?" Jillian's tone was suddenly just as dejected as Ariadne's mood with no sound now issuing from the burning radiator.

"I think so," Ariadne pulled back to sit up on her knees, "best wrap up nice and warm."

"Not tonight, Aria," Jillian's blue eyes were alight with fun and mischief under her limp blonde waves, "I met the most interesting man at the diner today. His name is Eames. He's from England—if you can believe it—and oh, he's so handsome."

"Oh please, not this again," Ariadne pleaded, meeting Jillian's excited face as she rose, "the last man you met who made you this happy turned out to be married, remember?"

"Of course I remember. This one is different." Ariadne fought to hold back a disproving sigh.

"We were warned about this when we started working at the diner—any man who shows particular interest will probably just stiff you on the tip, or expect a discount on his meal."

"Well this man didn't do either," Jillian retorted smartly, "if anything, he gave me the biggest tip of all!" Ariadne's face scrunched in disbelieving confusion, arms crossing, watching the smile on Jillian's face grow.

"Do I even want to know? Please don't tell me it's a date…you don't even know the man, Jilly."

"It's an invitation for the both of us—"

"No."

"—to the Backroom of the Penrose!" Ariadne froze, watching Jillian's smile curve impossibly higher. Jillian knew Ariadne had a weakness for the Penrose Hotel.

The hotel was so far removed from their price range, and the lobby bespoke such wealthy elegance that the famous Backroom had been a point of fantasy. Was it just as luxurious and intimate as the exterior suggested? Or would it contrast, and be a dingy den of scary criminals and thieves? Of course, anyone who consumed alcohol these days was technically a criminal, breaking federal law, but what class of criminal did the Penrose Backroom attract?

"You can't deny that you are not considering the offer, Aria." Jillian's knowing tone broke through Ariadne's thoughts.

"Do you really believe him, Jilly? He just walked in and offered to take you to the Penrose Backroom? He sounds like a cop just looking to get you in trouble, or some sleaze who knew you would jump at the chance."

"This man is the real McCoy—he actually works there. He asked me to join him tonight, and I said only if my roommate could come. His eyes lit up, and he said he has just the friend for you."

"No, no," Ariadne quickly countered, "I refuse to get mixed up in this. Going to a speakeasy is one thing, but consorting with the men who work there is something else. What if there's a raid tonight? Or your man Eames turns out to be a cop? And…," her eyes fell to her simple, woolen drab gray dress, "and if the décor of the Penrose lobby is any indication of the Backroom, we have nothing to wear."

"I told him that," Jillian's voice held a proud note, "to which he gave an incredible answer that probably shouldn't have swayed me, but it did." Ariadne leveled Jillian with an incredulous stare.

"Well, let's hear it." She said, knowing she would probably come to regret it.

"Without hint of charm in his voice—his eyes were honest as the day is long, I swear—he said 'with a face like yours, darling, no one will care what you are wearing.'" A guffaw of a laugh left Ariadne, watching Jillian's face contort to an indignant look.

"And after that you agreed to accept his invitation?" Ariadne had to ask, but didn't need to wait for Jillian's answer, catching the flash of embarrassment on her roommate's face. "Oh, I bet he thinks he's one smooth customer. Well I'm glad your dress is covered for tonight, but this Eames has no idea what I look like."

"I told him you were equally as pretty, if not prettier."

"You know that's a lie."

"No, it's not Ariadne. And with the right little touches of makeup, you would be irresistible to any man. Who knows, maybe you and Eames' friend will just hit it off!"

"But how could I ever tell anyone—my parents, for instance—how I met him? 'Drinking illegal alcohol in the speakeasy' just won't fit into dinner conversation." Jillian sighed defeated, her blue eyes taking on a pleading tone.

"Please Ariadne, just come tonight. I won't go alone, and he's telling his friend that we're coming. I don't want to stand him up when he was so generous to offer. And really, how often does an opportunity like this come around? You can't just waltz into speakeasies—and this is not just any joint—this is the Penrose! You can't pretend that doesn't hold appeal in of itself."

True, Ariadne couldn't resist the Penrose Hotel. The angles of the masonry façade alone were enough to pique her interest, let alone the arching frames of the lobby. She sighed reluctantly, her eyes settling to Jillian's with cautious acceptance.

"Alright, I'll go," she didn't miss the explosion of excitement on Jillian's face, "but we have to be careful."

"Agreed. I don't want to get arrested my first time drinking!"

xxx

"Stop tugging on your dress, Aria. It won't get any longer." Ariadne's hands didn't still, attempting to pull the dress down to cover more of her legs. Never before had she worn something so short, but Jillian insisted.

Once upon a time, Jillian had taken two of her mother's fancier dresses (which were still very plain by most standards) and cut off the long sleeves while shortening the hem to just above the knee. Despite the boring quality of the fabric, the cut was right in keeping with the latest trends for women. It exuded freedom, confidence and looseness from the confines of previous generations. But did Ariadne want to project all that to a room full of intoxicated men?

"Stop being so nervous. You look great." Jillian reassured, clasping her coat tighter over her navy dress.

"I feel half-naked." Ariadne hissed, catching a man on the street staring at her legs.

"That's the point," Jillian laughed as they rounded the corner, the familiar lights of the diner coming into view. "Don't worry so much." Ariadne huffed quietly, resisting the urge to reach down and tug on her dress once more.

"At least meeting him at the diner was smart." Ariadne said absently.

"Of course," Jillian shot Ariadne an incredulous look, "I'm not so dense as to invite him to our place. Keeps it strictly neutral. And once we have an in at the Backroom, we can come and go as we please." The idea was beyond thrilling.

Jillian longed to run in moneyed, classier circles than she currently did. And Ariadne couldn't deny she wanted the same. Tonight was a chance to glimpse a different life, maybe even masquerade as such. It would depend on this man Eames, she supposed. Would he try to pass them off as more than they were or simply just the night's easy catch?

"Oh, there he is!" Jillian's words were soft with an air of rushed excitement, her face brightening to a smile as her eyes saw only him. Ariadne fixed her gaze in the direction of Jillian's, and couldn't believe that for once, the woman was right.

The man in question was leaning his solid frame casually against a lamppost with a cigarette resting between the lushest set of lips she'd ever seen. A cloud of smoke enveloped his face for the briefest of seconds, dissipating to revel stylishly coiffed sandy brown hair, and two mischievously glittering gray-green eyes above a line of short stubble. His shirt, a dark burgundy color, appeared well cut along with the dark suit trousers and jacket we wore.

"Why Jillian, darling," his words were purred on the thick accent, lips curling to a welcoming smile, "I was almost starting to think you wouldn't come."

"I'm not a liar, Mr. Eames," Jillian returned with a wide smile, "we just had to make sure we looked the part." Eames' eyes shifted from Jillian to Ariadne with an appreciative air.

"Well I would say you both pass inspection, though the night is still young," he extended a hand towards Ariadne, "you must be the roommate. Would you happen to have a name that Jillian refused to earlier supply?"

"Ariadne." She responded stiffly, not willing to trust that glint in his eyes as she reached a hand forward. He caught it gently, and brought it to his lips for a smooth kiss.

"Lovely to meet you, Ariadne. As Jillian may have told you, my name is Eames. No need for the mister in front. And you are much prettier than your roommate gives you credit. I have a wonderful friend for you to meet."

"Thank you...Eames," she stumbled over the informal name for someone she barely knew, "but that's not really necessary."

"Nonsense. Tonight is about having fun," his eyes landed back on Jillian's, "but let us come along, my lovelies. It wouldn't do to waste anymore time." He flicked the stub of his cigarette away, extending an arm out for Jillian, who eagerly slipped her arm around his, unable to tear herself from his engaging eyes. Turning to Ariadne, he held out his other arm, taking note of her weary, hesitant look as she looped her arm through his.

"So Ariadne," Eames started conversationally as they walked down the street, "darling Jilly here works in this quaint little diner, and I wonder if you do the same?"

"For now, yes," she answered, her tone still none too friendly, earning an irritated glare from Jillian across Eames' chest, "and what of you, Mr. Eames?"

"The mister really isn't necessary," a sneer of disgust flitted quickly across his features, "and didn't she tell you? I work for the owner of the Backroom."

"Yes, but doing what?" Ariadne persisted.

"Ask me again later."

"It must be illegal then." Ariadne continued, ignoring Jillian's surprised gasp.

"I'm sorry Eames, really," Jillian quickly spoke up, "she's usually not so quick to judge."

"Well she's entirely right, love," Eames' eyes settled to Jillian's with a placating air, instantly drawing the earlier smile back to her face, "if it weren't, I'd come right out and say so. And don't worry about her attitude—this friend of mine is quite uptight and sharp-tongued himself." They shared a small laugh. "I have no doubt they'll get along swimmingly, and I can get to know you better." She melted closer into Eames' side, unable to stop herself, wanting to fall away in his stormy eyes.

"How long have you been over from England? Your accent is still quite thick." He smirked on Jillian's words as the bright lights of the Penrose Hotel awning lit his face.

"Longer than I care to say." He dropped their arms, letting a hand fall to the small of Jillian's back as the doorman opened the brass lined glass doors. Ariadne caught the excited smile on Jillian's face at the contact before letting her eyes scan the beautiful lobby.

The architecture of the building lent itself to such a classy establishment that it seemed impossible to fathom such a speakeasy could exist in its confines. The light played off the arches and supports, bringing out the rich texture of the mahogany wood and finely cut marble. Oh, to be an architect and create such masterpieces! Ariadne longed for the ability. But she had been scolded and sent straight back out of the college admissions office when she tried to apply.

Her eyes continued to wander, drinking in the rich colors of the furniture and carpets as they moved through the lobby. Jillian's eyes saw only Eames as she continued to relish the feel of Eames' hand on her lower back. They rounded the large central staircase, paralleling a wall of ornate mahogany doors. Even if someone tried to find the Backroom, there was little chance one would just stumble across it. Ariadne's eyes focused curiously on an older man with white hair and tiny glasses who sat on an elegant settee between two doors, perusing the tiny columns of the day's newspaper.

"'Hello, Miles." Eames called out quietly as they approached, the older man looked up with a smile.

"Ah, welcome back Mr. Eames. And who might your friends this evening be?"

"The beauty to my left is Miss Jillian, and we have Miss Ariadne on my right." His smile drifted lazily between them.

"You know Dom said—"

"We're going to find Arthur." Eames cut him off with a short smile as the old man shook his head, amused, yet disappointed.

"Very well. You girls watch yourself." Miles tapped a finger knowingly against the side of his nose, before reaching a hand behind him for a gentle tap on the door. It swung open admitting the faint smell of smoke, the sounds of music and soft voices. The hulk of a man standing on the landing in a dark suit cast them an impassive glance and a nod as they passed through. They stopped atop the stairs, looking down the dark red velvet lined staircase, both girls wide-eyed and star struck.

"Don't walk around with those looks, loves," Eames' wise voice sounded in their ears as he moved to stand between them, "there are plenty of blokes in here who would take advantage of it." Ariadne shook from her fascination, putting up a mask of composure as she handed over her coat, Jillian following suit. Once again, her hand twitched to reach for the bottom of her skirt and cover her knees. Never had she felt more like a fish out of water.

The lazy sound of a woman's voice drifted up the staircase at they worked their way down, allowing more of the speakeasy to come into view. Dim candles shone from each table, the rest of the dark maroon and mahogany walls sparsely accented with sconces of light. The stage however was fully ablaze and currently occupied by a tall, slender woman with short, bobbed curls whose sultry voice was slightly accented.

Most of the tables were occupied, clouds of smoke hovering above each one as a waiter or two buzzed around. Women, some dripping in diamonds, others dressed plainly, hung off their men as leisurely, fanciful conversation floated around the gay, intimate atmosphere. It was such a far cry from Ariadne and Jillian's everyday world. What would it take to forever remain in such a world?

Eames guided them through the tables and people, steadily approaching the solid, intricate bar. An innocent pair of ice blue eyes stared out from under a head of full, rich brown hair as he wiped down the smooth, polished surface.

"Good evening, Mr. Eames." The bartender flashed a warm smile.

"Evening, Gregory. These women are guests of myself and Arthur. Treat them well."

"Yes sir," Gregory turned his smile to Jillian and Ariadne, who both couldn't stop from just looking around, "what'll it be, ladies?"

"Oh…I don't know." Jillian's words ended in an embarrassed laugh as she looked to Eames who smiled right back.

"Let's start them off mixed with Coca-cola, something sweet."

"I adore Coca-Cola." Jillian chimed in, looking to Gregory excitedly.

"What do you say to that, miss?" Ariadne looked unsure at the bartender's words, but nodded.

"Sounds fine." She couldn't stop from looking around. This place was everything she had ever thought it would be, but doubted she would ever see. The woman on stage was now crooning a slow song in French, sounding deliciously exotic and jazzy. Her eyes were closed as the song poured forth, couples moving to the rhythm on the dance floor.

All in that moment, Ariadne wanted to be the woman on stage freely singing. She exuded such a relaxed, carefree vibe as if the world held no troubles. Why couldn't life just let Ariadne pursue architecture? The money would be good, and she'd finally be doing just what she wanted.

"Here, miss." She jolted from her thoughts, turning back to the bar in time to see Gregory set a highball of dark liquid before her.

"Mmm, Eames, this is fabulous." Jillian declared, resting a hand on his arm as she tasted the beverage. Swallowing nervously, Ariadne reached for the glass, watching Gregory's expectant smile as she took a drink. The sweet taste of cola filled her mouth, accented with an unfamiliar spicy burn.

"Oh, that's tasty." Ariadne smiled in the aftermath, hoping she sounded convincing enough. Cola-Cola had never been her favorite, but she didn't know what else to ask for; or if Eames was going to insist upon paying for their drinks, she didn't want to waste one.

"Eames, Dom wanted to see you when you returned." Gregory tipped his head in the required direction as Eames nodded quietly, turning to his ladies with a smile.

"Forgive me, darlings, but I shall return soon. Gregory will look after you; won't you, Greg?"

"But of course. Have a seat, ladies." He answered, watching Ariadne pull out the nearest stool, sliding into the smooth leather, unable to keep his eyes from the skin of her leg revealed in the new position. Jillian leveled Eames with a flirty smile, taking another sip of her drink.

"Don't be gone too long." Her words took a playful, teasing edge.

"Wouldn't dream of it." He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before turning and moving through the crowd. Jillian's face exploded in a giddy smile as she slid onto the stool next to Ariadne.

"Isn't this place fabulous? It's everything I thought it would be. It fits in perfectly with everything upstairs." Jillian gushed.

"Truly, this place is the bee's knees." Ariadne agreed, meeting Jillian in an excited clink of their glasses before indulging in another sweet taste.

"So what's your opinion of Eames?" Jillian asked excitedly.

"You were right—he is devilishly handsome, but there's something in his eyes I don't trust. He knows he's got you though."

"Mmm, and that is perfectly ok because I want him to have me. He is absolutely dreamy." Jillian's eyes moved in the direction Eames had disappeared, eager for him to return.

"Just keep your head Jilly, no matter what head-turning things he says." Applause erupted around them, drawing their attention to the stage as the song drew to a close. Couples moved back off to their circular booths and square tables, happy in this little underground world.

"Well I'm anxious to meet Eames' friend," Jillian started, turning back to her drink, watching Gregory schmooze with another patron, "I hope you're nicer to him than you were to Eames."

"Don't expect too much." Ariadne laughed slightly, matched by Jillian as she reached for her drink, glancing around the bar. A man she hadn't noticed before (had he even been there before?) instantly caught her eye. He sat at the far edge of the bar, sipping from a highball.

His dark, sharp eyes scanned the room, as if expecting trouble, from underneath a head of slicked black hair. From what she could see, his suit looked quite expensive and very well tailored to his lean body. Ariadne wasn't sure she could say she had ever seen a more handsome man.

Those dark eyes suddenly fell to hers and she froze, wide-eyed. Quickly she turned away, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks, unable to believe she'd been caught staring at him. She took a big gulp of her drink to hide her embarrassment.

"Why hello Mr. Tall, Dark'n Handsome…," Jillian commented absently, her gaze fixed vaguely in the direction Ariadne had just been staring, "well, we don't know about the tall part yet, but it's probably a safe guess." Ariadne reluctantly cast a glance to the man in question, not surprised to find it was the same one she had just stared at. "Why look at you blush." Jillian smiled knowingly, excitedly as Ariadne turned back, an embarrassed smile on her face.

"Yes, he is certainly handsome." Ariadne admitted, quickly taking a drink to avoid saying anything further.

"Let's hope Eames' friend is half as handsome, or I'll ask Eames about that man at the end of bar."

"Jillian Stewart, don't you dare." Ariadne warned under her breath. "I'll leave right this minute if you so much as say a word."

"No, no, you can't!" Jillian protested, a genuine look of disappointment on her face. "Things are going so well, and we can't just run out on Eames."

"It looks to be a near full house tonight…I'm sure he'd have no trouble finding a replacement."

"No call to be so mean, Ariadne." Jillian brushed her off, taking a sip of her own drink, a silence briefly falling between the women.

"Your lover boy's back." Ariadne said absently, spotting Eames emerging from a nondescript door and weaving through the tables. Jillian's mouth dropped open in a surprised smile.

"And guess who he's stopping to chat with…!" Ariadne felt her cheeks burning already, not even wanting to look. Sure enough, Eames was stopped just behind the handsome, dark-eyed man, speaking in hushed tones, eyes darting about.

The other man returned a few short words, accented with a quick nod of his head, earning a chuckle from the Englishman. The sitting man raised his glass, suddenly jarred as Eames clapped an arm on his shoulder, speaking some more words, eyes drifting towards the girls with a playful smile. Jillian turned with an excited giggle to Ariadne at the look, noticing her friend unable to tear her eyes from the two men.

The younger man's eyes were now looking directly at them as Eames still spoke, his words seemingly lighter than before. Ariadne couldn't tear her eyes away, watching something of a smile curve about the stranger's face as he slid out of his stool, bringing his drink with him as Eames lead the way.

"Well, we were spot on about the tall part…taller than Eames even." Jillian said appreciatively in Ariadne's ear. "Oh, what a dreamy pair. Surely you can't deny him, Ariadne."

"I…I don't know." Ariadne raised her glass, taking another drink, a fuzzy warmth spreading through her limbs.

"Welcome back, Eames," Jillian turned in her seat, giving Eames a prime view of her legs, not missing his raking gaze as he approached, "do tell, is this your friend for Ariadne?"

"None other," Eames trailed his eyes lazily up Jillian's body, sending a wave of heat racing up her spine, "Jillian, this is my good friend, Arthur St. Clair." Ariadne didn't miss the brief annoyed furrow of Arthur's brow.

"Pleasure, Jillian." His voice was just as clipped and precise as his appearance suggested.

"And this lovely lady on your right is dear Ariadne." Eames continued, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. Arthur's smile was dazzling, if not completely genuine, leaving Ariadne momentarily speechless.

"Lovely to meet you, Ariadne. I'm Arthur."

"Nice to meet you." She found her voice, offering a polite nod of her head, unable to tear her eyes away.

"Splendid," Eames cut in excitedly, "now that you two are acquainted, I'm going to spirit my Jilly here off for a dance." Jillian's smile widened (if it was possible), abandoning her drink to slide off her stool, nearly into Eames' waiting arms. Ariadne looked on worriedly, debating whether to call out some kind of warning, but her attention settled back to Arthur and the thick silence between them.

"So," he started at length, looking almost uncomfortable, "how do you know Eames?"

"I…I don't," Ariadne answered, fighting for surety in her voice, "he met my roommate this afternoon at work, and extended the invite."

"Ah, I see." Arthur said, his face hardening as if hearing bad news.

"I'm sorry," she quickly backpedaled, "I don't mean to get him or anyone in trouble."

"He should know better," he answered, his tone serious, before lightening as he turned to her, "but that's not your fault." She smiled reassuringly, reaching for her drink, taking a small sip.

"What are you drinking?" His voice held such a controlled edge, it was damn near mesmerizing.

"Something mixed with Coca-cola." A brief sneer of disgust flitted across his handsome face as she laughed softly. "I agree, it's not my favorite."

"What is?"

"I don't know," she admitted, hating the sheepish note to her voice, "I haven't ever drunk alcohol before."

"Now that's a real crime. Here," he held out his glass, "give this a try. Not near as sweet." She studied the glass suspiciously.

"What it is?"

"Closest you can get to bourbon these days." He watched her eye the glass nervously, finding her timidity behind the confident front endearing. "It won't hurt you." Her brows narrowed indignantly, reaching for his glass, not backing down from his coddling gaze.

She raised the glass to her nose, surprised at a smoky scent, pressing the glass to her lips and taking a drink before she could change her mind. The smoke was a welcome change from the sweet, but the burn was the last thing she expected. She coughed in the aftermath, trying to ease the searing in her throat. A low, delicious throaty laugh reached her ears.

"And to think, that's fine grade," Arthur said absently, watching her cheeks flame in cute embarrassment, "try another sip. I guarantee it'll go down smoother." Looking uncertainly at the glass, she raised it for another tentative taste, finding the burn lessened, and more flavor filling her senses.

"Mm, I do like that. Much better than my cola mix." She raised the glass for another sip, feeling the heat radiate through her chest, surprised at the liquor's quick effect on her. She glanced around the room quickly, noting the sluggish movement of her eyes and the light feeling in her head.

"Consider it yours," Arthur said kindly, scanning the bar for Gregory, "I'll get another."

"Oh no, no please," she protested, offering the glass back, "I really shouldn't drink all this. I'm…not used to it." He was surprised to find himself almost concerned for her, not wanting to see her intoxicated and fall in the wrong hands.

"Are you sure?" He had to ask, not wanting to leave the lady without a drink.

"Yes, quite. Thank you, Arthur." Her eyes met his and she offered up a smile, unable to stop herself.

"Well, what have we here?" An accented voice broke their shared look, turning to see the woman from the stage, looking between them excitedly.

"Nothing of interest, Mal." Arthur smoothly answered.

"Nothing of interest?" The woman, Mal, looked at him in disbelief, sidling closer to him. "You're willingly conversing with a patron. I must say it's certainly unlike you."

"You can thank Eames for it."

"I intend to," Mal turned to Ariadne with a warm smile, "and what's your name, Cherie?"

"Ariadne. You have a great voice. I've really enjoyed your singing."

"Oh, well thank you," Mal dismissed with a laugh, "it's passable for a dump like this." Ariadne couldn't hold back her laugh, finding something infectious in the woman's smile. "I'm sorry I must run, but it was lovely to meet you Ariadne, and I'll catch you later, Arthur." Mal cast him a playful wink before floating off through the room just as suddenly as she arrived.

"Do you…come here often? She does seem to know you pretty well." Ariadne ventured.

"I work here, so yes, you could say I come here often." She nodded, again finding her cheeks flushing. How many times in one night could she be embarrassed around this man? Soft chords from the band filled the room as Mal took her place by the microphone.

"Alright gentlemen, it's time to pull your special lady close for a special dance." Mal sought Arthur out of the crowd with a mischievous smile. "That means you, Arthur." His face remained impassive, though the slight tightening of his jaw muscles and the hints of amusement in his eyes give him away. Ariadne watched wide-eyed as he set his drink on the bar, looking to her expectantly.

"We're not really…?" She asked, stumbling over the words.

"Would you, please?"He extended a hand, watching her doe eyes fall to it nervously, seeing the debate in her brown depths. She forced a nervous sigh, taking a chance and reaching for his hand. Effortlessly he led her to the dance floor, not missing the nervous dart of her eyes around the room, no doubt searching for her friend. Ariadne just had to know where Jillian was, get her encouragement on this.

A steady hand fell to her hip, supported by the strength of a lean arm across her lower back as he pulled her in close. All thought stopped as her body fell into his, her eyes seeing only him, her search for Jillian instantly forgotten. Absently she reached for his other hand, drowning in the intensity of his eyes.

_At last my love has come along  
My lonely days are over  
And life is like a song_

Faint, intriguing whiffs of spice reached her nose in their close proximity, surprised at the strength in his slender frame. He moved them about the floor with such fluid, controlled movements, she couldn't be sure her feet were even touching the floor.

"So…um, is Mal just a friend? Or…your boss?" Ariadne somehow managed to choke the words out, and none too elegantly at that, watching a fleeting smile cross his face.

"Close enough. Boss' wife." Arthur distractedly answered, his eyes moving from hers to scan about the room, leaving her feeling awkward and idiotic for even asking the question.

He continued to turn her about the dance floor, seemingly unaware of the waves of heat that tingled through her as she brushed against him, still reeling from his close presence. Was it possible for one man to be so completely attractive? She couldn't believe the direction of her thoughts. What spell did this man have her under?

_You smile, you smile  
Oh and then the spell was cast  
And here we are in heaven  
For you are mine at last _

She didn't even register how much closer into him she had moved as they danced. The fuzz of the alcohol only let her feel the softness of his suit jacket, the graceful movements of his body, the faint touches of his breath to her skin. Her heart raced in her chest, unknown heat pooling to ache deep within her core as she continued to move with him.

His cologne was nicer than the Brit's, allowing her eyes to drift closed as she drew a deep breath. Lazily, unaware of the smile on her face, she opened her eyes only to meet his, feeling a blush instantly overtake her. She knew, if only for proprietary's sake, she shouldn't be enjoying this dance nearly as much as she was. But she couldn't deny the waves of attraction humming through her body.

_At last... at last_

The notes of the song drew to a close, Mal's voice fading under a dim round of applause as Arthur guided them to a gentle stop. Her mind was spinning, overcome by everything about him, not aided by the alcohol. Looking up at him, unable to do anything but smile, she knew she had to find Jillian and leave. Now. Before she lost herself completely to this man.

"Thank you for the dance," she said at length, registering her hand still clasped in his as he led her from the dance floor, "you're a good dancer." She thought a faint embarrassed tinge came to his cheeks in the low light.

"Thank you. So are you." A disbelieving laugh left her as they neared the bar, and he caught Gregory's eye with a nod, watching Gregory respond and reach for a bottle of amber liquid.

"Well I'm afraid I must find my friend and be off. We both work early." Ariadne forced herself to say, glancing around the room, missing the spark of disappointment in Arthur's eyes. He couldn't believe the pang of longing that shot through him at her words, watching her search the room. "You don't see Eames, do you? Jillian isn't always easy to spot in a crowd." Arthur scanned the room, taking in all the people he'd kept an eye on throughout the evening, not surprised to not find the Brit among them. He could only hope Eames wasn't out making a mess of trouble with the roommate.

"I don't see him, no," Arthur said, watching Ariadne turn back with a worried look, "I'm sure he put Jillian in a cab home. The boss did have some work he needed him to attend to tonight." He'd always been a smooth liar. It came with the job, and he had taken to it quite naturally. Her smile returned, taking comfort in his words, leaving him almost hating himself for lying to her. Why it mattered to him, he wasn't sure.

"I'm sure," Ariadne agreed, forcing herself not to worry, "she's a smart girl."

"Like you, I have no doubt." Arthur said softly, watching her turn to him with those doe eyes that were growing increasingly irresistible. "Well please, let me see you out and get you a cab home."

"Please, that's not necessary."

"It would make me feel better," he offered a placating smile, "the streets are quite unsafe this time of night."

"Roamed by men like you?" She ventured bravely, watching surprise flash in his eyes.

"Do you think I'm dangerous?" She didn't know if he intended to add the sultry note to his words, but he succeeded, a ripple of heat settling between her legs.

"I can't say for sure," she let a playful smile to her face, "so far you've been quite the gentleman."

"Then let me show you out before you reverse your opinion." Something about the confident-timid conflict within her was incredibly inviting, and Arthur surprised himself by actually wanting to see her again. She nodded, moving through the room with him close on her heels, taking the stairs up to the coat check.

"So will I see you around?" He asked at length, after a nod to Miles who still sat atop the stairs in the lobby as she shrugged into her coat.

"Probably not. I don't think I can afford to be a regular."

"Well maybe we'll have to work on just running into each other." She looked at him with something of a surprised smile. He didn't really want to see her again, did he? Surely he was just saying all this to be nice.

"Sure, that doesn't sound too difficult." She forced a nonchalant note to her words, trying not to give away how excited the prospect of seeing him again made her.

"Settled then." He followed her through the brass and glass doors into the cool, damp night air. She shivered against the breeze watching him walk unaffected to the curb, raising a hand to hail the nearest passing cab. She watched almost embarrassedly as he spoke to the cabbie, reaching to his pocket for what she could only assume was cab fare. He nodded, turning to the back door, and pulling it open for her. She looked up, her face a contorted look of reluctant guilt and flattery.

"Just give him the address and you'll be home in no time. No need to worry about the fare or tip." He said warmly as she walked towards him, resting a hand on the door.

"Thank you, Arthur…for everything tonight."

"You're entirely welcome. Maybe I'll get the chance to do it all again someday."

"Maybe." She answered, the hopeful note on her voice not going unmissed.

"Goodnight, Ariadne." He took her free hand in his, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of it, watching a smile overtake her face.

"Goodnight, Arthur."


	2. The date

**Wow, y'all give me with such warm fuzzies about writing. Thanks for everyone's support!**

**To those I was unable to PM:**

**Guest—Thanks for reading! Those Inception boys play their shady secrets close to the vest, but I hope to unravel a few, so I hope you continue to enjoy.**

**Trina D – Glad you're enjoying the 1930's spin. It's always been a favorite era of mine, and these characters seem tailor made for it. As far as Jillian goes, just read on...**

**And now I beg your indulgence for several notes, and then I will let my story do the talking from here on in (pausing to address all appreciated reviewers, of course).**

**1. Loose liberties are taken with the historical story elements. US Prohibition ended in 1933. "It Happened One Night" was released in 1934. The car our Backroom boys drive is an early 30's model. I mainly just tried to keep it all believable for the general time period (but it is glamorized and stylized at times), which has been trying when my mind spends so much time in 2012.**

**2. Readers on past stories have recommended that I lay out more story details & warnings in advance, so here goes (or skip if you're not concerned & like surprises): Ariadne/Arthur; Ariadne/? (not Eames; and no Arthur/Eames); general criminal activity; language; sex; violence against women (in context); prominent drinking & smoking; a few fairly important OC's**

**3. I had a lot of fun intertwining my Backroom universe with the "Inception" movie universe. As such, anything you recognize is not mine, and used for the (hopefully) betterment and fun of the story.**

**4. Given the great 2012 FFnet Cleansing Movement that is going on (I've been sad to see so many of my favorite authors' moving & lovely works removed), if something happens to this story, I will look at posting it elsewhere. I might go ahead & do that anyway, we'll see.**

**If I missed something, just holler at me. And if you leave me a signed-in review, I will PM you in response (unless you don't want me to). And updates may be slow, but there's so much more left to go.**

**Now I'll shut up. Please enjoy!**

**-MidnightB**

**Chapter 2: The date **

Ariadne could barely hold her teacup steady the following morning. Her stomach was one big nervous knot. A giant tangle of unsettling shame and guilt consumed her as she sat curled on the lumpy sofa in a thin blanket, eyes continually darting out the window.

At first, it wasn't so bad. But once the fuzz of the alcohol, smoke, and the handsome Arthur were removed, she found herself quite in shock at her behavior. Of course, he was a dangerous man. Anyone who consorted, let alone worked in a speakeasy, had to have an air of violence about them. In hindsight, she was glad she didn't make any real future plans to see the man again. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

Especially given the physical effect he had on her. Shame and surprise had overwhelmed her in the washroom last night to discover her soaking wet feminine folds, something she'd only heard briefly about when she came of age. She just wasn't sure she was ready to have her body fire up like that again around him.

And then dawn brought the chilling discovery that Jillian hadn't made it home last night. Ariadne had seen her bedroom door closed when she returned, and just naively assumed Jillian had already gone to bed. She had no real reason to think otherwise. But as the hours passed, two now, since Ariadne had awoken to discover Jillian's absence, she had grown increasingly nervous.

She thought about the phone on the wall outside of her landlord's room. When was it worth a call to the police? And how could she tell them what happened? Her friend met a man at the Penrose Backroom and never came home? She felt certain the cops would just laugh at her, saying there's nothing to be done, and she should have been more careful.

She took another sip of tea, hoping it would ease her upset stomach. Did she dare go back to the Backroom herself? Confront Arthur, and demand to see Eames? Would Arthur acquiesce or would he turn into the dangerous man his look suggested?

"**Then let me show you out before you reverse your opinion."**

He didn't deny it when she gave a noncommittal answer, and Ariadne knew meeting up with Arthur again would be a gamble. She swallowed uncertainly, truly regretting their trip to the Backroom.

She turned lazily at footsteps trudging up the stairs, echoing off the blank walls and wood floors. Perhaps it was Mrs. Wayne up the hall, returning with the laundry from the courtyard. Not that clothes would dry very well in this wet, chilly weather. Ariadne's heart stopped when the front door handle turned, the hinges squeaking like always.

"Jillian!" Ariadne nearly dropped her tea, eyes wide with relief as her roommate entered with bright eyes and a closed-mouth smile.

"Hi Ariadne…," she shed her coat to the couch, crossing her arms about her chest, "I'm sorry I just left you last night."

"Goodness Jillian, you had me scared to death," Ariadne still couldn't believe it, "where were you all night? Here, sit." She watched Jillian move through the room, her mind clearly elsewhere, a fraction of last night's smile on her face. Jillian nervously tucked a loose curl behind her ear, turning just before the sofa to stand by the window.

"I…I was with Eames all night." Ariadne's eyes widened.

"What? He didn't…did he hurt you?" A soft laugh left Jillian, the smile of fond memories crossing her face.

"Hardly."

"Oh Jilly…" Ariadne's voice held a touch of pity, "you didn't actually…_sleep_ with him, did you?" The implication of her words caused her cheeks to flush as Jillian turned with a stern look.

"Don't you judge me Ariadne Blake, don't you dare," she snapped, "until you're in the same position, faced with the same hard decision, you just won't understand." Jillian's eyes fell to the floor, her face seemingly conflicted. "I thought it would never be a question, but when you're in that moment, and everything's on fire…you just feel so good…and that's when you find out what's important to you."

"I wasn't judging you," Ariadne quickly said, trying not to get too defensive, "I'm just surprised is all. I've known you for fifteen years, and never once thought you would just meet a man and do…_that_ with him right away."

"I didn't think I would either." Jillian admitted honestly, her voice seemingly somehow more wise. "And in the wake of it this morning….I don't know…." Jillian gave her head a mild, almost sad shake. Ariadne sighed quietly, still coming down from her nervous high, taking a welcome, warming gulp of tea.

"So…," Ariadne started, looking back to Jillian, trying to put a smile on her face, "when will you see Eames again?" Not that she was thrilled to know her roommate was becoming involved with Eames. That would only too easily pave the way for her to see Arthur again.

"I don't know if I will." A torrent of emotions played across Jillian's face on her words—anger, sadness, disappointment, shame. Jillian raised a hand to her face, covering her mouth and nose, doing her best to stifle a sniffle.

"Oh no, Jillian…" Sympathy clouded Ariadne's words, unable to believe he would use her so carelessly. What kind of man would do that?

"I'm such a fool, I know I am," Jillian admitted, eyes red as tears rolled down her cheeks, "but I don't hate him…I just…." She aimlessly moved around the small room to sit next to Ariadne, sinking back against the hard couch cushions. "Even still…I can't bring myself to get mad at him…because I should have known better." She gulped heavily, swallowing her unshed tears. Shame weighed heavily in her eyes as she collected herself, silence falling between the two girls.

"Jilly…what if—is there a chance you could be…pregnant?" Ariadne struggled to put the words together, hoping she wasn't making the situation worse.

"Not that he told me," Jillian shook her head quickly. "He was careful about it." Ariadne nodded, a little more relieved.

"That's good."

"So how was your night?" Jillian asked with a sniffle. "I'm sure you didn't wind up in such a state as me."

"No…I—Arthur and I danced, and then he put me in a taxi home." Jillian's brows rose over her red-rimmed eyes.

"He asked you to dance?" A faint excited note laced her words beneath the sadness.

"His boss' wife made him do it." Irritation tinged Ariadne's words, not knowing why it really bothered her so much.

"Are you going to see him again?" Ariadne licked her lips nervously, not entirely sure how to answer that herself.

"He asked if he would see me around, and I told him probably not. But then he said we would have to work on running into each other again…" A small, knowing smile grew across Jillian's face.

"Oh, that's exciting for you! You haven't ever had steady gentleman caller."

"I'm not sure I want it to be him or Eames though," Ariadne started, almost nervously, her hand clenching around the teacup, "we shouldn't get mixed up in their world. They're outlaws. If the police were to come any random night to the Penrose, they would all be arrested. And if we're there, or if they know we know about it and don't turn them in…." Ariadne trailed off, shaking her head. "I don't know if I want to become a part of that."

"I'm going back," Jillian said softly, her voice resolute, "I'm going back tonight. I have to see Eames. I have to know."

"No Jillian, don't. Just…chalk it up to a bad decision and leave it alone."

"You sleep with a man and tell me if you can just 'leave it alone.'" Jillian snapped, pushing off from the couch. "I have to know why he did it, and why he doesn't think I'm worth keeping around. I just _have_ to." Jillian ground her words out through clenched teeth, tears springing to her eyes, frustration mounting beneath the rejection. The door to the bedroom slammed rather loudly behind her, plunging Ariadne into the relative silence of their living room. The faint hiss of steam from the radiator signaled the fire in the furnace was good and strong, but she knew it would be a matter of hours before it died.

Ariadne drank the rest of her tea steadily, desperate to do something to help Jillian and stop her from actually going to the Backroom tonight. But Jillian was right—Ariadne couldn't say she knew what Jillian was feeling. What would it be like to share a man's bed only to have him leave her the following morning? A man only slept with the woman he loved and married. Or so she'd always been told. What would she have done if Arthur tried for more? Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment as she remembered discovering her body's wetness.

Maybe she should just go back and talk to Eames herself, or perhaps get Arthur to talk to Eames. Jillian clearly wasn't in her right mind to go back to such an unsettling place. But perhaps if Ariadne could talk to one of them, find out what Jillian wanted to know and save her friend from spiraling further down ….

Resolved in her course of action, Ariadne rushed to set her teacup in the kitchen before hurrying off to dress.

xxx

The brass doors of the Penrose Hotel were rather intimidating in the bright rays of early sunset. Ariadne couldn't help but feel self-conscious as she walked through the lobby, well aware her frayed wool coat, five-year old cloche hat and worn stockings were quite out of place. The women she passed were draped in the finest, new styles of rich fabrics, faces painted perfectly with pristine curls and bobs. She couldn't help but long to someday look like them, secure in such a place.

But as she hurried down the back hallway, her plain brown heels clacking against the fine marble, seeking out the Backroom door, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She was here for Jillian—to spare her further heartache, embarrassment and shame.

She instantly recognized the old man sitting by the door reading the tiny newspaper columns through spectacle that sat low on his nose. She scrambled to remember the man's name. He looked up from his paper as she approached, a pleasant smile across his aged face.

"Welcome back, miss," he rapped twice on the door without a further thought, his smile taking on a rather playful edge, "you'll find him downstairs."

"Thank you…Miles, wasn't it?" She tried, hoping she had actually remembered correctly. He offered a confirming nod of his head as the heavy door opened, admitting the sounds of a jazzy trumpet.

"Indeed, miss." She let her smile widen, before turning from him with weary eyes to take in the dim surroundings of the coat check atop the staircase. After politely refusing her coat and hat, she descended the velvet lined stairs, unable to stop her smile at the sheer thrill of such an entrance—the draping, the creak of the heavy wood under the plush carpeting. Even at second glance, the Backroom was still everything the refinement of the Penrose Hotel suggested it would be.

There were only a few tables occupied compared to the crowd present last night. Yet the stage was fully ablaze, a trumpet player belting out fast paced, hot, jazzy notes. Ariadne couldn't believe the audience wasn't packed for such a performance. Her eyes landed innocently on a table of leering men, whispering in hushed voices, with pointing gestures her way and lewd smiles. Nervousness wrenched her stomach as she suddenly debated the wisdom of her decision, making a straight line for the bar, spotting the youthful, familiar face of the bartender.

"Well, Miss Ariadne, lovely to see you again," Gregory's crystalline blue eyes shone with genuine warmth, "what can I get you?"

"Oh, nothing, thank you," she reached to tuck a stray hair under her hat, feeling a flush rise as his attention lingered, "I'm looking for Mr. Arthur….if you know where he is…."

"You're sure nothing at all?" Gregory tried again, his brow creasing almost concernedly. "You know whatever you like is on the house." Her face crinkled in confusion , shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts.

"On the house? Why is that?" She registered the smooth appearance of a man at her side, his shoulder brushing hers as he slid onto the stool next to her. Gregory merely smiled, casting a quick smile between them as he moved off down the bar, directing his attention to the patron at the end.

She turned, her eyes settling on the svelte form of Arthur St. Clair, his hair slicked perfectly, his suit cut to fit every angle of his body. He was every bit as handsome as he had been last night. A ripple of heat worked its way through her body, tingeing her cheeks, hoping she could keep herself together enough to stay focused.

"They all think you're my girl." She had hoped the smooth sharpness of his voice was just a byproduct of her alcohol intake last night, but sadly not.

"And did you tell them they were wrong?" She forced a note of surety to her voice, pushing other thoughts aside.

"I didn't tell them they were right." She glared at him. "Don't act that way; we both benefit." He leaned in closer, his mysteriously spicy scent accompanying him. "Quick, give me a kiss." The request was polite, soft.

"Absolutely not."

"Well it was worth a shot." A roguish grin streaked across his handsome face. "Though I am compelled to ask what brings you to the Backroom, and alone at that."

"Your friend is quite a heartbreaker." She watched a look of disgust flash across his face.

"Eames is not my friend."

"Last night he said you were his friend."

"No one asked me."

"In any case, I'm here to see him. I figured you could help me."

"Defending your friend's honor?"

"Something like that."

"Usually it's the husbands who come in here looking for satisfaction with Eames. But to each their own." She leveled him with an annoyed glare, offense registering in her doe eyes.

"I do not appreciate your insinuations."

"What else am I to infer from you being here?" He cast her an appraising, impassive glance as she huffed in mild annoyance, determined not to back down from his gaze.

"I'm just here to speak with Mr. Eames." She hoped she sounded sincere enough, since it was the honest truth. Though now that she was here, staring into his sharp chocolate eyes, maybe it wasn't the _completely_ honest truth.

"I wasn't lying last night," Arthur's voice was soft between them as he gave her a gentle, almost playful nudge with his shoulder, "I did want to work on running into you again. And, while regrettable for you, it's blissful for me that Mr. Eames is currently out on an errand for the boss." He watched her shoulders fall disappointedly, eyes retaining a fraction of their earlier determination.

"Do you know when he'll be back?" A hopeful note rang on her words as she fixed her gaze back to his.

"Not for a while at least," her lips set in a thin line on his words, considering her options, "how about this?" A smile teased the corner of his lips as he spoke. "You and I go for an early dinner, and we'll see if he's back when we're done."

She froze on Arthur's words, her heart suddenly racing. Did she dare take a chance with him? Did she risk falling into his dreamy eyes and well-cut suit? An embarrassed smile spread involuntarily across her face as her head fell, staring down at her rather poor state of dress.

"I…I don't know," an endearing, nervous note sounded on her words, "I'm not really dressed for anything, and I really should…" She trailed off, suddenly unsure. She just needed to talk to Eames for Jillian's sake and leave. It should just be that simple. So why was Arthur's invitation making it so complicated?

"You look lovely. Really." His voice held a rather genuine note, surprising even himself. He still couldn't say exactly what it was about her—but he was immensely intrigued by her willingness to come back here alone in defense of her friend, and her contradicting innocent shyness over such a simple dinner invitation.

"Just dinner?" She desperately tried to keep the uncertainty from her voice, knowing she failed miserably when his face softened in comforting lines, his left hand reaching across his chest to rest against her arm in a reassuring hold.

"I promise you, just dinner," the honesty on his voice was enough to bring a small, excited smile to her face, "not all lawbreakers are complete scoundrels where ladies are concerned." She giggled softly despite herself, meeting his eyes with a silent, small nod. "Settled then. If you'll wait here, I need to go let the boss know."

"Sure." He cast her a small smile before moving off through the room, reaching for the button on his jacket to secure it in place before pushing through the office door. Dom sat behind his desk, perusing his black record book while Eames lounged lazily in leather armchair opposite the desk.

"Eames, don't be here when I get back." Arthur simply instructed, reaching for his hat on the coat stand.

"Isn't that just a bit harsh, darling?" Eames teased with quirked brows and a curious smile. "What have I done now?"

"That girl you brought here last night—"

"Girl?" Dom interrupted, eyes zeroing in on Eames suspiciously.

"That girl's roommate is here, and wanting a word with you." Arthur continued unfazed.

"Ariadne? Why should she care what Jillian and I did last night?" Confusion and annoyance laced Eames' words.

"If they're roommates, its stands to reason they're at least close friends, Eames," Arthur's voice was cold and clipped, his stern gaze locked on the man in question, "we don't need her to create a scene because you used and left her friend."

"Is that where you're going then?" Dom asked, a knowing, almost dubious tone on his voice.

"She can't just wait around here for Eames to come back, now can she?" The ghost of a smile flitted across Arthur's face as he regarded his boss, hefting his hat in his hands. "We shouldn't be gone too for long, but Eames shouldn't be here when we get back."

"Now don't have too much fun distracting her from her noble crusade," Eames returned, his voice bitingly sarcastic, "you might wind up in much the same situation."

"I'll see to it he clears out," Dom said, shaking his head, irritated, "be careful." Arthur lifted the corner of his lips in knowing smirk, ducking back out the door.

"Eames, we've discussed this. Your mixing business with pleasure has put this place at risk more—"

Dom's scolding silenced in the wake of the door. It was a familiar speech that Arthur could just about recite himself as he glanced around the room. The trumpeter on stage was having no trouble keeping the few early patrons entertained. So far, it wasn't shaping up to be too rough of a night, and frankly, Arthur was rather looking forward to enjoying some time away from the Backroom. Especially time spent trying to better understand what it was about Ariadne that interested him so.

"Shall we?" He asked as he approached, watching her eyes meet his.

"Alright." A note of nervous excitement accompanied her words and smile as she started to walk between the tables, towards the stairs, feeling Arthur fall into step behind her. "You must have a very understanding boss for him to just let you take off." A fond smile grew on Arthur's face.

"Dom was my friend long before he was my boss."

"Was that before this place?" She offered a smile of thanks as the doorman held open the door atop the stairs, admitting them into the bright hallway.

"Many years before this place." Arthur settled his hat atop his head, tilting it just slightly to bring out the attractive angles of his face. The man sure knew how to dress. Ariadne almost couldn't believe he was willing to be seen publically with her.

"You're not very forthcoming with details, you know," Ariadne tossed him a sideways smile, "and I don't want to be annoying by just asking you questions all evening."

"I'm paid to play details close to the vest, Ariadne, but don't worry," Arthur cast her a reassuring smile as she Penrose front doors yielded to the chilly street bathed in the bright oranges of twilight, "do your worst—I'm sure I can withstand your interrogation." She laughed lightly as they continued to walk lazily down the street.

"Ok…so then, where are you from?"

"Right here, Chicago born and bred." She drew a breath to speak. "Uh-uh, tit for tat," he cut her off, "where are you from?" She sighed almost embarrassed, giving her head a dismissive shake.

"Missouri," a note of regret sounded on her voice, "some little town a big city boy like yourself has never heard of."

"You don't have to be so embarrassed by it, you know." He offered comfortingly.

"But you're just so…I come from nothing with nothing, and I just want to prove myself worthy of your dinner invite without making you regret it."

"So despite the shy nervousness, you admit you're interested?" He teased lightly, looking to her with a hopeful glance, drawn in by her soft eyes excitedly alight, the flirty smile she was trying to hide. She bit her bottom lip to stifle her smile, hoping her cheeks weren't too flushed, looking up as they rounded the street corner to settle to the familiar façade of Mel's Diner. They continued to walk, nearing the front door, making her internally panic.

"You don't mean we're eating here…at Mel's?" She asked, her face falling.

"I've never eaten here," Arthur said casually, "and I know you're a girl willing to take chances."

"I—we can't," she stammered, embarrassment constricting her throat, "I…work here." Her voice was flat and forced, hating to have to admit yet another aspect of her plain life to his man. She caught the lingering smirk on his face, getting the feeling that somehow he already knew.

"Then who better to recommend their finest dish?" She scoffed a disbelieving laugh.

"I'm not sure anything at Mel's qualifies as 'fine,' especially not if you have a definition in line with that suit of yours."

"I like a good adventure." He held open the door, letting her pass first, her eyes darting about the familiar walls lined with photographs and move star pinups.

"Just grab a seat. Someone'll be with you shortly!" The familiar call rang out from behind the counter, Ariadne recognizing Hillary's distinctive southern drawl. Arthur followed her as she slid into the nearest empty booth, amused at the plain surroundings. Ordinarily, she was spot on—this place was far below his usual. He had passed it by every day for four years, but he was hoping a familiar environment would put her more at ease. However, as he watched her trying to shrink into the booth, hiding under her hat, he longed to do more.

"I wish you would relax," he started softly, dropping his hat beside him, fixing her with an open smile, "honestly, I don't care that you're from nowhere Missouri, that you work in this diner—I'm here with you for _you_—the girl who's courageous enough to waltz into a speakeasy in defense of her friend, but shrivels up under a simple dinner invitation." Her eyes locked to his, freezing in surprise at his words.

"You can't mean that—"

"Hello, and welcome to Mel's—Ariadne?" Ariadne glanced up, offering the waitress a small, almost guilty smile.

"Hello, Hillary."

"Just couldn't stay away?" Hillary jabbed, glancing from her to Arthur in pure surprised shock.

"It was my choice for us to dine here this evening." Arthur offered with a small smile.

"Well isn't that sweet." Hillary couldn't keep the smile off her face as she gazed at Arthur. "So what can I bring y'all?"

"What's the best?" Arthur looked at Ariadne, watching a wry smile come to her face.

"We're known for our chicken fried steak, though calling it 'the best' is a stretch."

"Settled then, that's what I'll have." He looked to Hillary with a confirming nod. "And for you?" He turned back to Ariadne.

"The same."

"Right, then two chicken fried steaks coming up." Hillary scribbled on her pad and ran off back to the kitchen. Oh goodness, what was she going to tell everyone?

"Friend of yours?" Ariadne offered a noncommittal shrug of her shoulder in response to Arthur's question.

"Sort of. We've traded shifts a few times."

"At her request or yours?" She paused, finding his question odd.

"Hers," she answered uncertainly, "she's seeing a mechanic, but they don't get much time together."

"Are you seeing anyone?" He sought the answer in her eyes, entranced by the pink flush in her cheeks, the hopeful spark in her brown eyes.

"Not currently." She couldn't keep the smile from her face as she stared back at him, wondering at the implication of his question.

"Good to know." His gaze quickly darted back towards the kitchen and around the room before returning.

"So…can you talk about your job at all?" She ventured, searching for something to keep the conversation going.

"In vague terms," he simply said, "obviously, you can understand why." A shiver raced down her spine to remember just who exactly she was sitting with.

"So then, in vague terms, what do you do?" She hoped that was the right question to ask. The faint smirk that teased his lips told her that just maybe it was.

"I'm the second in command, as it were; a sort of assistant manager," he started softly, "officially, I'm the man on point. Dom's job is to run the business, and it's my job to make sure nothing stops him from doing his job."

"You make it sound simple." She lightly laughed, amused that his description could easily fit any job.

"It's dangerous," his voice was ever serious despite his relaxed face, "takes a sharp, clever mind and an accurate, steady hand to stay ahead in our game."

"Which one are you?" A thick silence descended their eyes held each other, the answer lurking in his chocolate eyes. She drew a sharp breath as silent understanding passed between them. He wasn't going to hide the truth, but he wasn't going to admit it here.

"You know which one I am."

"So you're…you're a…" She couldn't quite bring herself to say the word 'killer.' But everything about his look and demeanor suggested it.

"I'm a point man." He finished her sentence with a little smile as she shifted in the booth.

"So if you had a choice, would you still be a point man?" She asked, a curious little smile on her face. "Assuming money was no object, and you had the education, what job would you choose?" The smile fell from his face, eyes regarding her with a newfound interest.

"I've never thought about it, much less been asked." He admitted rather quietly, his eyes falling from hers to the tabletop. "Experience has taught me that dreams and wishes have little use in this world."

"Oh surely not," she tried to reason, "without dreams and wishes, how can you ever aspire—or want—to be anything better than what you are?" He shook his head in amusement, disbelief clouding his eyes.

"Your outlook is oddly refreshing, Ariadne," his voice was warm on the compliment, falling into her inviting eyes, "don't let anyone in this city take that away from you." The proud little smile on her face was almost overwhelming. "So, my little dreamer, if money was no object, what is your dream vocation?"

"Architecture," she didn't even have to think about it, "I would love to go to school and become an architect. To create a building, and see it come to life. To see your vision help shape the face of a city….would be my dream vocation." She swallowed hard, in shock at herself. That dream wasn't something she shared with just anyone. She barely knew this man, and part of her still unsure if she wanted to continue getting to know him.

"That would indeed be quite something," a hint of jealousy tinged his words, "I hope someday you're able to achieve it." She scoffed dejectedly.

"Not likely," she admitted with annoyed roll of her eyes, "the woman at the admissions office all but laughed me out when I tried to inquire once."

"Here we are," Hillary's soprano voice cut between them as plates followed, "two chicken friend steaks."

"Thanks, Hillary." Ariadne offered up a polite smile, feeling embarrassment return to her face as she turned back to her food.

"This doesn't look half bad." Arthur appraised as he reached for a fork, nodding in thanks at Hillary as she set two glasses of weak-strength tea on the table.

"I hope it's the most popular dish for a reason." Ariadne picked at her food with the fork, spearing off a small bite.

"You don't give this place enough credit." He lightly teased, drawing a surprised, amused smile from her face.

"I don't think you get to judge," she returned, playfully, surprisingly more relaxed, "you look like you could eat at the Chez Paris every night."

"I'll take you there sometime, if you like." Her fork clattered to the plate as her face fell in a look of shock.

"I...you can't meant that," she dismissed, talking aloud, more to herself, "Chez Paris is the best restaurant in town."

"It's not my favorite, but it's certainly among the top contenders." She knew nothing of fine dining or food, and to hear him speak so plainly about it was mind boggling.

"That is quite a change from just dinner out…like this." She took a bite, trying to hide her nervousness. Did he realize his comment implied further…dates?

"We'll just give it time." His lips quirked in an encouraging smile, making her heart flutter. This man was indeed something else. The rational voice in the back of her head was still trying to count the reasons she should just walk away from him and his fine suit. But he had been nothing but encouraging, supportive and complimentary. Nothing about his look suggested he could have such a caring—dare she think—romantic side to him. She fixed him with a quizzical look, watching him eat, trying to see through his refined mannerisms.

He felt her watching him, ignoring her at first, in favor of his warm food. Her seemingly limitless curiosity was fascinating; that despite her wariness, she was relaxing and opening up. Hearing her talk about her love of architecture had been most revealing, and he'd meant every word.

It was rare to find anyone in his circles with such dreams for a better life. The money he made kept him in a comfortable lifestyle which proved enough to distract him from the cutthroat nature of his work. But someone like Ariadne was special, a breath of fresh air.

"You know," she started softly, almost hesitantly, "all of this—this gentleness, this romance, this courting—it doesn't seem like you." He pulled back to lose himself in her brown eyes, impressed at her insightfulness.

"Most women in my world aren't looking for all that," he started softly, wisely, "so while it's not my normal, I do know a thing or two about treating a lady as she deserves. So I will do what I must to prove to you that I'm not out to hurt you, despite my profession, and I'm just a man who wants to get to know you better."

For better and worse, all of Ariadne's protesting voices faded away, losing herself in his eyes and the rest of dinner conversation. Her heart was bursting with excitement that this was actually real—he actually wanted to keep seeing her. The chicken fried steaks were slowly disappearing as the conversation kept easily flowing. She would never have guessed she could relax around him, but something in his eyes and smile kept drawing her out, compelling her to want to trust him.

The chilly breeze stung her face as they left the cozy diner, drawing an unbidden shiver from her lips. She marveled that Arthur was so unaffected by it without an overcoat.

"Thank you, again, for dinner, Arthur." She looked up at him with an appreciative smile. "You didn't have to do that."

"But I wanted to." He simply answered as they strolled down the street. "May I request the privilege of dining with you again soon?" She couldn't help the excited smile on her face.

"I think I would like that," she answered hesitantly, finding her stomach filling with nervous butterflies, "I enjoyed dining with you tonight."

"I'm glad." Something like relief sounded on his voice and she couldn't stop herself from looking over to him, still finding him so handsome, still unable to believe such a man wanted to see her again.

Suddenly she remembered Jillian—Eames didn't want to see her again—that's why she was here. That's why she went to the Backroom, that's why she agreed to dinner with Arthur.

"Do you think Eames is back yet?" She asked, all earlier levity from her voice gone, replaced with cautious determination. Silence reigned between them as Arthur's face drew in pensively, looking over at her almost regrettably.

"You shouldn't come with me to the Backroom." She looked at him almost pleadingly.

"Why? You said we'd see if he was back when we were done."

"For one, it will save me cab fare." He lightly teased, watching her brow furrow in mild annoyance.

"But I have to, for Jillian." Ariadne tried again, her voice firm.

"Let me speak to Eames for you, please." He insisted. "The man is difficult to deal with on the best of days, and it takes a firm hand to make him shape up." Her gaze took a questioning look.

"He must really not be your friend…." She mused with an unsure shake of her head.

"I may not admire all of Mr. Eames' personality traits, but I will always have his back," the loyalty in Arthur's voice was intriguing, "our business cannot function with trust on the most basic level." Her eyes fell from his, sighing nervously, almost in defeat.

"Very well," she resigned herself, looking back to his eyes openly, "then I trust you to speak to him about my friend's wellbeing. He upset her, and she has no one else to look out for her." A sudden spark of realization and playfulness lit her eyes. "Consider this proving yourself worthy of getting to know me better." His lips curled to an all out smile, again him ten years younger.

"Accepted , milady." He teased with a tip of his head, drawing a light laugh from her pretty face. "Then here's where I'll say my goodnight." He looked down to her hand, gently enclosing it in his. Her smile widened as his lips brushed the back of her knuckles, lingering ever so slightly. "Thank you for agreeing to dinner, Ariadne. I look forward to more." His thumb swept in gentle strokes over the back of her hand.

"Thank you for dinner, Arthur. I, too, look forward to seeing you again." She knew some part of her should be horrified to say so, but she couldn't bring herself to care. He nodded his head in understanding, a sly smirk flashing across his handsome face.

"Until next time." He dropped her hand, turning to walk away.

"Goodnight." She called out in departure, turning to walk down the street towards her apartment, trying to make sense of the last twenty four hours.

Had she ever had two evenings be so completely unexpected?


	3. The job

**I'm not a bootlegger or waitress, so please bear with me. Next update will probably be slow (blame the upcoming US holiday.) Thanks for stopping by!  
**

**Chapter 3: The job **

"Here." Arthur's eyes settled to the clothes Eames unceremoniously dumped on the desk before darting up to the other man in a sharp glare. "You remember what Boggsy said."

Arthur rolled his eyes, fighting not to huff an annoyed sigh. "Yes I do—no suits. Thinks they're pretentious, doesn't trust them. Shoots them onsite without question."

"I'm not sure Boggsy knows the meaning of 'pretentious." Eames watched with something of an amused smile from his leaning perch against Dom's desk as Arthur shed his suit jacket.

"It's a wonder that you do."

"Now don't get snippy with me," Eames countered, "we at the Backroom are known for our sterling customer service, and wooing Boggsy just right will bring a big payoff. We can't let your penchant for fashion stand in the way."

"It's not fashion, Eames," Arthur returned, voice firm as he laid his vest atop his jacket and shoulder holster, working on his shirt buttons, "its image. We represent Dom and the Backroom when we're out making deals. It's about giving respect and earning it."

"To no-good, lawbreaking bootleggers?" Eames' lips lifted in an ironic smile.

"To all of our would-be business associates," Arthur dropped his shirt to the growing pile of his clothing, reaching for the thick cotton, maroon button-down work shirt. "To call them no-good, lawbreaking bootleggers is only to insult ourselves as well." Eames blew a silent laugh, letting his eyes run over the trim lines of Arthur's under-shirt clad torso as the other man slotted his arms through the maroon shirt, studying the fit.

"Have you gotten thinner?" Eames caught the surprised catch in Arthur's movements at his words, fighting back an amused laugh.

"No. Maybe you've just gotten bigger by comparison." Arthur looked up with a sharp, snide smile.

"Now that's just mean," Eames drew his lips to a playful pout, "I can't inquire after your wellbeing as a friend without you insulting me in return?"

"You're not my friend."

"So you tell Ariadne, who tells Jillian, who told me." Arthur looked up from fastening the cuffs of his shirt.

"You've seen Jillian?"

"Only at the diner."

"Feel guilty, are we?" Arthur reached for the catch on his trousers, shimmying them off his narrow hips.

"I have no use for guilt." Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the defensive tone on Eames' voice. "You can thank that girlfriend of yours for making you ride my ass about it." A smile broke out on Arthur's face at Eames' words.

Sure enough, four weeks had passed and Ariadne was still accepting his invitations, warming to him and seemingly enjoying herself. Apparently, he had succeeded in proving himself worthy, and the thought filled him with an unusual sense of contentment. He shook from his thoughts, all business, as he stepped into the gray wool pants, not surprised to find them a size too big.

"These don't happen to be your old castoffs, do they?" Arthur asked, clenching the trousers around his waist as he reached for the plain khaki suspenders on the table. His own just wouldn't do if they were trying to appear as simple folk.

"Not mine," Eames gave a dismissive shake of his head, "friend of mine. They're not the perfect fit."

"But they're certainly better than that monstrosity of a getup you're wearing." Arthur's eyes flitted to the loud, garish plaid shirt Eames was sporting underneath a pair of heavy cotton overalls.

"I happen to like this shirt actually." Eames watched Arthur clip the suspenders to the waist of the oversized trousers, adjusting the length till they sat evenly on his hips.

"Part of this deal tonight with Boggsy will include a caveat that he cannot shoot us for wearing suits to future drop-offs." A flash of disgust sparked across Arthur's face as he took in his severely dressed down form, eyes settling almost longingly to the neat stack of his clothing.

"You don't give yourself enough credit—you look mighty fine dressed down as a simple man of the land." Eames said encouragingly as he pushed off the desk, grabbing the errant pair of boots at his side. "Hopefully these fit." Arthur stared down at the scuffed, plain brown boots, brow crinkling in annoyance as he slid his dress-sock clad feet into the uncomfortable interior. He really should have thought to wear thicker socks, suddenly wondering if he actually owned any.

"Come on," Arthur brushed all thoughts about his current state of dress aside, "we'll be late."

"Just one more thing." Eames reached with a lightning fast flash to Arthur's head, mussing the man's finely groomed raven locks between his fingers. Arthur's brow drew to a tight line as his eyes turned upward, trying to see the damage Eames inflicted. He could feel a few loose strands brushing his forehead and knew the rest of it was in an equal state of disarray.

"Couldn't I have just worn a hat like you?" Arthur called after him in annoyance as they pushed out the hidden wall panel into the chilly damp of the sewer. The Backroom was below street level from the hotel, and luckily opened up directly to the Chicago sewers via a secret hidden door in the wall. It made smuggling bootlegged liquor that much easier to finagle. Not that Police Chief Walter Reynolds was ever going to bust them.

"A hat ages you, and we might need to play off your youthful good looks tonight." Arthur fought a roll of his eyes as the utility maintenance door opened under Eames' hand, spilling them out into an abandoned back alleyway. A gunmetal-gray-green early thirties' Chevrolet Standard was really the only thing of value to be found in the alley, and so far they were fortunate enough not to suffer any vandalism. By all appearances, it was just the average vehicle, but the inside had been heavily reworked to accommodate the bootlegging trade.

Arthur was almost grateful for the thicker wool of his trousers compared to the thinner fabric of his suit as he slid onto the cool leather seat. The heater would warm the car up eventually, but it was never fast enough for Arthur's liking. The car came to life as Eames took to the wheel, easing them out of the alleyway and onto the main street. It wasn't terribly late, but traffic was still light.

"Don't take Bleaker street," Arthur commented absently, reading the letters on the passing movie house marquee, "in case that cop from last week is back."

"He wasn't a bad chap." Eames slowed at a red light.

"No; just one of the honest ones." Arthur grumbled.

"He didn't trust the suits either, if I remember rightly," Eames looked to Arthur with a snide little smile, "maybe Boggsy is on to something." Arthur watched Eames' eyes trail over his simply dressed form.

"If legitimate businessmen can wear them without question, an illegitimate businessman should have no trouble either."

"I think you'd be hard pressed to find anyone right now in this country with money who's a legitimate businessman."

Silence lapsed between them as Eames drove through the city, working their way along major streets to leave the city lights behind. It was only once the moonlight gleamed off the acres of farmland spreading out in all directions did Arthur reach for the glove box. The weight of the gun was solid in his hand as he hefted it, suddenly regretting his lack of a jacket.

"You shouldn't carry that." Eames nodded towards Arthur's hand. "Boggsy gets nervous around armed men."

"You seem to know an awful lot about Boggsy." Arthur placed the gun on the seat between them, reaching forward to the glove box's other contents.

"We've had several discussions both in person and on the phone. For being such a salt of the earth farmer, he does have his preferences."

"And we're the evil big city folks come to steal his hard-worked-for moonshine at a quarter what it's worth?"

"Have you met Boggsy too?" Eames quipped with a flash of an amused smile. Arthur shook his head in mild annoyance, hefting the black pocketbook. It felt heavier than it should. He flipped the cover open, thumbing through the bills, already knowing the denominations.

"Why do we have twice the money?" Arthur knew Dom kept a tight lid on money, never parting with more than he knew was necessary. "We're not paying Boggsy twice what its worth."

"No, we're also picking up a drop from Sanders' men." Arthur's eyes dropped closed in momentarily annoyance, his face deadpanning. "Surprise."

"Why didn't Dom tell me?" Arthur asked, closing the pocketbook with a quick snap.

"He told me to tell you."

"And we're dressed like this?"

"Oh come now, you look cute." Eames teased, amused at Arthur's silence. He was sure the tips of Arthur's ears were red in annoyed embarrassment. Too bad it was too dark to see them.

The street sign was roughly scrawled and Eames almost missed it for want of discerning a blush on Arthur's cheeks. But as he applied the brakes and eased the car onto the rough dirt road, he began to count the seconds, watching them pass various little lanes cut between the harvest leftovers.

"That one." Arthur said softly as Eames reached 'fourteen' in his mental count, just as he should. Slowly he eased off into a lane inlaid between tall rows of the unknown remnants, Arthur reaching a hand to steady the gun against the seat as they bounced over the uneven ruts. An opening in the middle of the field came into view, two cars already parked with lights shining in the clearing.

"At least they're punctual." Eames said quietly, easing the car to a stop, leaving the lights on.

"At least." Arthur agreed, slipping the pocketbook in the pocket of his trousers, easing the door open. "Evenin'!" He waved a hand in friendly greeting, purposefully dropping the 'g' off his word, bringing a warm, open smile to his face. He wouldn't let it be said he wasn't everything the situation required him to be.

"Evenin' yerself." A solid stocky man stepped forward with a nodded greeting, thumbs hooked in the straps of his overalls.

"Boggsy, you're looking well." Eames rounded the car in time with Arthur as the overall clad man stepped forward with a lazy grin.

"Why thank'ye, Eames," Boggsy scuffed at the ground between them before leveling his gaze to Arthur, "and who're you, son?" Arthur fought back a bristle, coupled with a shiver from the chilly night.

"Name's Arthur," he offered his hand, watching Boggsy's slow, uncertain movement to return to handshake, "I'm second in command of the Backroom, officially authorized to oversee our dealin'." It was easy to adopt the lazier, relaxed speech of the country residents.

"You sure we can deal?" Boggsy took his hand back, eyeing Arthur almost suspiciously.

"Oh, I like to think we can. Eames here speaks very highly of you." Arthur cocked his head shortly in Eames' direction before fixing Boggsy with a placating smile. "We're just here to do a job and pay you." A grin of uneven teeth spread across Boggsy's face.

"Now that's what I like t'hear. Yo, Jonny!" He turned back to the one of the cars. "Bring these boys somethin' to drink."

"That's mighty kind of you." Boggsy turned back on Arthur's words.

"Jest where you frum, boy?"

"Millsdale, quite a bit south'a here. Went to the big city lookin' for work."

"Well ya do right be me, son, and I'll hep keep ya in bidness." Now Arthur understood Eames' earlier quip about 'youthful looks.' He could only hope Boggsy wouldn't be present for every future drop. Playing the part of small town boy corrupted by the big city would only get annoying right quick. A scrawny bean pole of a kid approached Boggsy's side with a mason jar bearing a clear liquid.

"Now this'ere, is my white lightnin'. Best in th'state." Boggsy took the jar without further word to the kid, unscrewing the cap and holding out the jar. "Which one of ya first?" Eames reached forward taking the proffered jar with a light laugh, and Arthur narrowed him with a barely imperceptible glare of annoyance.

From the front pocket of his overalls, Eames produced a spoon, dipping it in for a sample. Arthur reached a hand over to take the jar as Eames reached back into the pocket, this time producing a lighter. With annoyed patience, Boggsy watched as the Eames set the liquid in the spoon aflame. The liquid caught quickly, burning a bright blue with a faint flash of yellow.

"You didn't add any adulterants?" Eames asked, the faint yellow flash concerning him.

"Adulter-whats? I'm'a good Christian, if that's what yer implyin'." A note of offense rang on Boggsy's words.

"No, he meant no offense," Arthur stepped in quickly with a sharp shake of his head, "he asked about adulterants—ingredients added after distillation to enhance the alcohol content."

"Not one drop," Boggsy defended, turning back to Eames with a light shrug, "it ain't a perfect process—did you see sumt'un in the flame?" Eames knew moonshine that burned yellow had its alcohol content tampered with by an adulterant, and the Backroom had quality standards to maintain. But that faint flash he saw wasn't enough to break the deal over.

"Then we'll take it for what it is. A red flame is more of a concern than yellow." Eames passed the jar under his nose for a quick sniff before bringing it to his lips for a taste. The burn was certainly expected, but Eames' brow furrowed as he swallowed and coughed on the finish to round out the flavor.

"Is…is that…peaches?" Boggsy's misshapen grin spread across his face as he laughed on Eames' words.

"You betcha," he started proudly, "the missus' cans 'em, and I sneak 'em when I know she ain't lookin'."

"Certainly an original." Arthur took the jar from Eames, passing it under his nose for a swift inhale, taking a swig himself. True to Eames' word, a pleasantly sweet, peach flavor overrode the ever present alcoholic burn. This was sure to raise eyebrows at the Backroom.

"As advertised," Arthur turned to Boggsy with a confirming nod, "that's a decent 'shine. If you can keep a steady supply, we'll keep a steady run of your merchandise to the Backroom."

"My kinda deal. Jonny! Help these boys load 'em up." Boggsy waved Eames back to towards the two cars as Arthur reached for the pocketbook.

"You'll find it's all there." Arthur handed the money over, watching Boggsy turn towards his car, squatting down to better see the bills in the headlights.

"Not that I don't trust ya, son, but these're tough times, and I've been thieved out by others with more innocent faces'n yours." The bills slid easily through Boggsy's burly fingers as Arthur stood quietly by, watching Eames load up the crates. If they were making two drops, hopefully Eames remembered to fill the space under the backseat first. It was always much harder to reach when the front seat compartment was full.

"Boy, you got yerse'f a deal." Boggsy righted with a proud smile, extending his hand to Arthur who met it with a firm shake.

"Well we're mighty glad to hear it."

"Though, o'course, I'll s'pect double next time." Arthur's brows quirked on Boggsy's words.

"Double?"

"Well o'course. The risk goes up, y'see. This first meetin', the cops dunno to even look fer us. But by second, third, any other meetin'—word gits out, you city boys git tailed—any number'a things goes wrong."

"This is a fixed price deal," Arthur started his voice maintaining its politeness, yet firming up with a serious edge, "there are other ways we manage risk for our clients and ourselves." Boggsy's eyebrows drew together, intrigued.

"How ya fig're?"

"We meet for drops in more public locations than this, and many of 'em prefer to rotate the location for each drop—either it's agreed upon during the current drop or we receive word by letter, messenger or phone."

"Well don't that all jus'seem a little too much werk?" Boggsy countered with a shake of his head. "I like my place in the fields here—they'ain't nowhere else fer me to do buidness."

"Then you forfeit your right to ask for double if you dictate this location for every drop." Arthur's voice never faltered under Boggsy's increasingly peeved glare. "We're willing to work with our clients to mitigate risk, but we do not accept unreasonable demands."

"'Mitigate?' What kinda fancy schoolin' did you find in the big city, son?" A smile came to Arthur's face as he laughed softly.

"None, admittedly, but I also didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday." Arthur let his smile linger as he fixed Boggsy with a serious glare. "You can expect the same pay for each drop. Any slip in quality will be met with an equal slip in pay. You can take until the next drop to determine how you want to handle the drop location. If you don't like those terms, you're welcome to seek out other buyers, but I s'pect you started with us knowing we were the best, so good luck gettin' more out of someone else. Good evenin' to ya, Boggsy." Arthur nodded in farewell, turning from the man back towards Eames, who waited patiently, hand on the wheel, feet on the running board, overhearing the exchange.

The car interior was warm, making Arthur instantly grateful as he rubbed his cold fingers together. He really should have thought about wearing a coat. They bounced back over the rutted lane towards the side road, Eames surveying the dark surroundings as Arthur blew warmly into his hands.

"Cold?"

"It's a little chilly out, yes." Arthur tersely answered, eyes drifting to the rearview mirror as they drove down the main road.

"I must say, you adopt that simple country boy way of talking very naturally." Eames commented, making Arthur turn towards him, brows creased curiously.

"Did…did you just honestly compliment me?"

"Don't look so shocked." Despite Eames' words, his eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, face tightening in concerned lines. "Did you see anything in the rearview a minute back?"

"No. Why?"

"Something's there now." Eames' voice dropped to a near silent, lethal whisper. Arthur's eyes returned to the rearview, squinting to study the darkness behind him for a hint of anything. There—faintly—but there it was—just a sparkle of a reflection. A piece of metal or glass catching the light of the moon or their taillights.

"Goddammit," Arthur hissed, turning in his seat to more clearly see out the back window. There it was again—just a flash of a reflection. They were most certainly being followed. "Your friend set us up."

"I'm beginning to see that." Eames's voice was all smooth calm, mirrored in his movements. "They'd have their lights on by now if they suspected we knew they were following us."

"It does remain to be seen just how long they'll let us continue on." Arthur reached for the gun that had been left on the seat, before settling to a lever on the side of his seat. "The cops aren't exactly known to be understanding in the games they play." Arthur's seat reclined back as the lever flipped, his body falling back to the keep to the flattening line of the seat.

This was hardly the first time they'd been followed, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Careful to keep his body low against the reclined seat, Arthur shuffled into the backseat, laying flat against the cool leather. The cops tended not to follow closely enough to make out movement in the car which always worked for their advantage.

"The reflections are coming faster now, closer together," Eames informed as Arthur hefted the gun in his hand, glancing out the window, "they're gaining on us."

"I'm set." Arthur reached for a tiny brass handle, pulling it back to slide away a thin pane of glass along the window's bottom edge. It left en opening that was just the perfect height for a gun barrel.

"You'll get one shot."

"I always do." Arthur breathed as he rested the tip of the barrel against the window's edge. "You be ready on the accelerator."

"I always am." Arthur studied the faint reflection flashes, trying to measure out the bumper height, location of the headlights, the frame of the windshield. Everyone had their own theory about the best first spot to place a well-aimed shot on a cop car, and after four years, Arthur had honed his method perfectly. But shooting into vague blackness was still never easy.

He squeezed the trigger, the sound of the gun lost to him as his eyes fixed on the target, waiting. Eames pushed the accelerator to the floorboard, eyes glued in the rearview as tense silence reigned. The back window broke in sharp sudden pings forcing Eames to duck in his seat as headlights blazed to life behind him.

Careful to keep low, Arthur lined up his gun, noting the still relatively close distance of the car. Apparently he had missed his mark. He fired off another round, the left headlight of the cop car shattering and going dark.

"Looks like you missed the driver." Eames' voice held an undercurrent of amusement as he slammed on the brakes, skidding around a corner to smoothly accelerate away.

"I know I hit him," Arthur fired back, "just not square in the head as I'd hoped."

"Sounds like you're out of practice." Arthur squeezed off another shot, dropping low in the seat as glass exploded to his left. They knew his location in the car. He chanced a glance to see if his bullet hit its intended mark, confirming the now telltale uneven bounce to the car's remaining headlight.

"They down a tire yet?" Eames asked, riding low in his seat.

"Right front." Arthur confirmed, lining up his next shot, doing his best to stay low. It was always tricky.

"Pop their left front and headlight already so we can get out of here." Two shots rang out in quick succession from the backseat amongst the returning gunfire as darkness fell on the road behind them. Neither man dared to speak, eyes glued behind them as they continued to speed away, the hail of bullets ceased. Arthur let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, turning his eyes to survey the bullet hole riddled back window. It would have to be replaced…again.

"I never doubted you for a minute." Eames' strangely relieved voice reached Arthur's ears as he shifted back into the front seat.

"I'd rather us both go up in flames than be sent to some filthy city jail."

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling—it wouldn't be petty city jail—it'd be maximum security. Your American Federal jail in Leavenworth. We're gangsters, murderers and bootleggers to boot."

"Hmm, for all that, you would be deported back home."

"If they could find my passport." Arthur huffed a silent laugh, coming down from the adrenaline high, blowing an annoyed sigh.

"Well it seems we need to have a talk with Boggsy." Arthur's voice was now all serious business. "Seems we need to convince him we're all that we are before we're caught and shipped off to Leavenworth."

"That's the spirit."

xxx

Ariadne huffed an annoyed sigh as she dumped the half empty plates with the dishwashers. This shift would never end.

"Another stiffed tip." Ariadne bemoaned as Hillary cast her a vaguely sympathetic look.

"I've already had four today," Hillary bemoaned, "and I needed to money too. Scott's taking me to the movie house tomorrow night, and I want to have a new dress."

"Don't let Travis overhear you," Jeanette bustled by with the warning, "you remember how he acted when he found out Maria had a steady beau." Ariadne eyed her with weariness, not entirely sure the warning was meant in a friendly light. Jeanette had never been an agreeable sort, always out to better herself, even if meant cutting others down. Even though all the other waitresses never had any proof, they were all pretty certain it was Jeanette who tipped Travis off about Maria's man.

"I know better than to tip my hand to Travis," Hillary defended proudly, "unlike Ariadne here."

"Travis doesn't work during dinner, you know that." Ariadne swiftly countered, scanning the food under the heat lamp. "If you notice Arthur hasn't been back since."

"It was still risky." Hillary fled with hot plates in hand, not sparing Ariadne a further glance. "Especially since Jeanette knows."

How would her overprotective boss react if he found out about Arthur? Maria's steady beau had been the son of a preacher, and though rumors abounded, she never knew what exactly happened between Maria and Travis that last day. Everyone guessed that she chose the preacher's son over her job, and subsequently quit. Ariadne hoped she never had to make that decision—for as much as she enjoyed time in Arthur's company, she desperately needed this job. It was one of the only few honest jobs out there for women.

Not surprisingly, nothing under the heat lamps matched her order, so she turned, grabbing the coffee pot, preparing the make the rounds.

"More coffee?" She was practiced at interrupting conversations and graciously accepting all manner of responses. A radio chirped happily in the corner as she bustled about the remainder of the lunch rush.

"Thanks Ariadne," Mildred smiled warmly up at her, one of several middle aged women who ate the diner for lunch every Thursday, "it's nice to see you filling out, dear. You were too thin." Ariadne glanced down in mild shock. Was she really fatter?

"Um, thank you…." She answered uncertainly, refilling Agnes' mug.

"And you just look happier." Agnes added with a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Have you found a fella?"

"Yes," she answered nervously, afraid of lingering too long, "yes, there's someone."

"I knew it!" Mildred laughed along with the group. "Well glad to see he's feeding and taking care of you, dear. Thank you for the coffee." Ariadne nodded her thanks and said a quick farewell, sweeping back to the kitchen to the check the orders for her waiting tables.

Had she really gained weight? Subconsciously, she ran her hands down her stomach and sides, not feeling any bigger. Her dresses all still fit and she hadn't noticed her face getting fatter. But maybe it was a change she couldn't see?

Sure, in her near two months with Arthur, she'd eaten more quantities and varieties of food than she had in years. And it was all so delicious and amazing. Did Arthur think she was too thin? Was he trying to fatten her up?

"Hey lady!" A gruff voice called out as she passed, shaking her from her thoughts. "We've been waiting; where's our food?"

"Let me go check." She offered a polite smile, ducking through the kitchen's double doors, blowing a long exhale. "Mack, what's the status of table 14's order?"

"Burger's on the grill," came the quick response, "only a few more minutes."

"Alright, thanks." She walked over to the counter lit with heat lamps searching the tickets to match the trays, spotting her booth 4 order.

"Oh Ariadne," Hillary's voice, sweet and singsong, reached her ears at the blonde bustled through the doors, quickly joining her. "Your lover boy's here." Envy colored her voice as she didn't spare the brunette a glance, missing her shocked expression.

"Arthur's here?" She blurted out her words, dread welling within her, hoping it was a cruel joke.

"I don't know his name, but he's out there with his sharp suit and slick hair." Ariadne's stomach sank to her feet. She didn't want him to see her like this—her uniform dress stained with coffee, her hair frizzed from the hot kitchen, her patience taxed—and certainly not where her boss could overreact.

"Thanks for telling me." She grabbed the plates for booth 4, quickly pushing her way back out in the diner. She found him at the counter without even trying. A warm little smile graced his face as he watched her pass.

"Alright, here we are," the folks in the booth look up at her hungrily, "the hamburger, with extra pickles, and the grilled cheese. Enjoy." She turned from the table without waiting for a response, heading straight for the counter.

His black suit was her favorite. All his others fit equally as well, but there was just something so seamless in his movements when he wore the black one. A deep burgundy tie offset his pristine white shirt, and she suddenly wished she looked half as good.

"Hey you." He said quietly as she approached, loving the smile that cracked her obviously stressed face.

"Hello yourself," she stopped next to him, "what are you doing here?"

"Its lunch time," he simply answered, as though the answer was obvious, "and I'm hungry." She bit her lip, mildly annoyed and amused.

"You know when my shifts are, and I've never seen you here before."

"Maybe I like the food." She lifted an eyebrow incredulously, relaxing under his disarming smile that followed. "Can I not just surprise my girl?" She loved that Arthur referred to her as 'his girl.' It made her feel so wanted, so protected. She sighed in defeat, a tired smile warming her face, hoping it wouldn't be too obvious.

"I'll get you a menu."

"Thanks." He swiveled around in his stool to face the counter, watching her swiftly produce a greasy menu for him to peruse. He met her eyes, affection warming his gaze before she turned back towards the kitchen.

"Excuse me, sir," Arthur looked to his side to see a tall, stocky man at his side, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, "was she bothering you?"

"Not at all." He offered politely. "She was offering recommendations at my request."

"Ok, I just wanted to ask," the cigar bounced between his teeth as he spoke, "you know how these girls can get—at the first sign of money, they fall all over themselves as their legs fall open." The man moved off with a crude laugh, missing the incensed scowl darkening Arthur's face.

Arthur turned back to the menu, keeping a wary eye on the man as he stalked away. It didn't look as if the man was going to take Arthur on his word. Arthur sighed reluctantly, his eyes narrowing as he watched the other man disappear through the kitchen doors.

"Ariadne!" The gruff call sounded over the noisy kitchen.

"Yes, sir?" She appeared, wide-eyed and uncertain in front of him.

"Man at the counter in a black suit says you were bothering him." Her face scrunched in confusion. Surely he didn't mean Arthur?

"I don't think so, Travis," she returned, doing her best to keep her voice steady, "he—the gentleman at the counter—asked if we had any specials, so I told him our best dishes—."

"Well that's not what he just told me." Travis snapped, pointing over his shoulder back towards the diner. "Now, are you calling both him and me a liar?"

"No, sir." She answered, her voice timid in the presence of her admittedly intimidating boss.

"Some boyfriend, Ariadne." Jeanette called out teasingly as she brushed past with plates in hand, an evil smirk on her face. Ariadne paled, her face crestfallen, nervous.

"Boyfriend?" A note of disappointed surprise colored Travis' words, commanding Ariadne's attention. "Slick, out there, is your boyfriend?"

"Yes, sir." Her voice lost all semblance of confidence as he slowly approached her.

"Ariadne, Ariadne," he shook his head slowle, "we need to have a little talk." His burly arm slid around her back, his fingers grazing the swell of her behind as he guided her in cautious steps towards the alleyway door. His body was pleasantly warm against the cool wind of early-afternoon despite the anxious adrenaline his touch coursed through her.

"I thought I made myself perfectly clear when you started working for me," he said, voice soft, seemingly comforting as his arm fell away from her backside, moving to stand close in front of her, dwarfing her. "I'm here for you girls—I always have been—for your problems, your wants…your needs." His voice dropped to a gravelly level as she took a step back, eyes wide.

"Yes, I remember." She nodded her confirmation. "It's very generous of you, sir."

"I want to protect my girls; keep them safe from trouble," he continued, backing her slowly into the wall, "and I can't do that if you're seeing Mr. Slick in there." She gulped hard, jarred as her back contacted with the uneven brick surface. Travis took the unlit cigar from between his teeth, shoving it in his shirt front pocket as he boxed her in.

"You're so innocent, Ariadne," Travis continued, running a finger down the curve of her cheek, his dark eyes boring into hers, "you can trust just anyone to take it from you." His finger swiped across her bottom lip, sending an involuntary shudder through her, her lip trembling. Arthur was supposed to be her first kiss; not Travis, not like this. "He ain't got nothing that I ain't."

"Well that's a lie." Relief flooded through her at the precise words, Arthur's commanding voice bringing unshed tears to her eyes. Travis cocked his head, taking in the point man's sleek approaching form.

"You're right," Travis snorted distastefully, "looks like I've got more than you." Arthur continued to stroll unconcernedly, coiled, deadly control lurking in his fluid movements.

"True, you're taller, brawnier, fatter," Travis snarled, forgetting about Ariadne, facing Arthur, indeed standing a good few inches taller, "but it takes more than that to earn a lady's trust and affections."

"And what? You're gonna teach me, slick?" Travis spat, sizing up the lean man in front of him.

"Not sure you're worth it." Arthur simply said, his face impassive.

"No girl wants a pretty boy who doesn't follow through on his big talk." Travis growled, fist balling at his side.

"Was I talking big?"

"Arthur!" Ariadne shrieked as Travis' fist flew. She caught a flash of black as Arthur moved, his elbow landing a blow to Travis' face, his knee connecting with Travis' gut. She watched, wide eyed, as Travis dropped limply to the dirty asphalt. Arthur rolled his arm, straightening his suit jacket as his eyes raised to Ariadne.

"Are you alright?" He asked, eyeing her worriedly, taking in her slack face, the uncertainly swirling in her doe eyes.

"Me?" She stuttered. "W-what about you? He hit you…"

"He didn't even touch me," a calming, reassuring smile warmed Arthur's stern face as he approached, reaching a hand out. "I'm more worried about you." She reached for his hand, allowing him to lead her close, her head falling to his chest. She'd only been this close in Arthur's embrace a few times in their relationship, and never had she wanted it more.

"He's never treated me like that before," she whispered, nestling her cheek against the fine fabric, "he…he's always been protective of us."

"That wasn't protective." Arthur's voice vibrated in his chest, bringing a small smile to her face. Her fingers played lazily against his slender arm, feeling some bulk and definition. She drew a shaky breath, suddenly wondering if she should be nervous about being in Arthur's arms after what she just saw.

"Is that what you were just then? Protective?" She had to ask, suddenly unsure.

"No; that was self defense." She nodded slowly against him before pulling back to study his sharp eyes.

"As I said, he never treated me that way before," she started, her heart starting to race, "but he always spoke of wanting to help and protect us. It…it sounds like the kind of words any man would speak to a woman whose trust he wants." The truth of her words flashed his eyes as she shook her head slowly. "How do I know my relationship with you will end up any better?"

"Honest truth?" He asked softly, no hint of offense or displeasure in his voice as he held her gaze earnestly. "You don't. But you're always more perceptive than you realize. Sometimes it just takes a leap of faith to trust it." A small smile warmed her face as she continued to look up at him, still feeling secure in his loosened embrace.

"Thank you…even if you say it was self defense." Her smile widened, watching his face soften.

"I would gladly come to your rescue any day." He couldn't help but smile at the light blush that colored her cheeks. "May I kiss you now?" Excited anticipation lit in her eyes as she nodded, everything about this moment telling her how right it was.

The side of his index finger fell to the underside of her chin, gently tilting her head until their noses touched. She couldn't keep the smile of her face, her stomach full of butterflies as his fingers slid up to gently hold her cheek, sharing a long, dizzying breath. The first touch of his lips was brief, feather light, teasing.

She met him again, drowning in the firm touch of skin, the gentle caress. He loved the feel of her arms tightening around him, pulling him in closer. Her lips parted involuntarily in a heady sigh, wanting to lose herself in him. He swallowed her sigh, longing to taste her further.

He pulled back, drawing a deep, restraining breath, nuzzling her nose with his.

"I was afraid Travis was going to ruin it." Her words whispered out over her pink, tingling lips.

"Ruin what?" He asked warmly, raising a hand to caress down her hair, kissing her forehead.

"My first kiss." She admitted rather sheepishly, feeling his hold on her tighten affectionately. "I…I wanted it to be you." He couldn't help the surge of pride and fondness on her words. She admittedly, actually wanted him. All this time he hoped he was proving himself to her, and here was the proof. He held her close, basking in the feel of her smaller body wrapped around his, never wanting to let this woman go.

"I'm glad it was me, too." He said at last, not sure what else to say, finding it was the truth. She sighed contentedly against him, melting into this strong, lean frame. Her eyes inadvertently wandered down to Travis' unconscious form, suddenly reminding her of the dirty alley, the shift she was right in the middle of.

"I wonder if I'll still have my job when Travis comes to."


	4. The time

**My thanks & appreciation goes out to all lovely readers! I apologize for the delay, and I'll try to do better (but life still happens).  
**

**Be ye warned: there is mature content of the adult nature ahead. And I mean no disrespect with the term "coloreds." It's simply parlance of the 1930's. And lastly, whatever dialog you recognize, I also don't own. Credit is given at the end of chapter.  
**

**All that being said, onwards! (and please enjoy!)**

**Chapter 4: The time **

The descent down into the Backroom was still fun. Even though she could most certainly be called a regular in the past few months, it was still exciting to do something so risqué. She knew it to be a little after nine, and the smoke hung thick in the air, the tables clustered with people. Her eyes drifted to the quartet of coloreds on the stage belting out a jumping rag tune. A smile came to her face as she weaved through the tables, admiring Dom for letting them play. Most white folks were not so generous.

She settled at the surprisingly empty bar, sliding into a chair, catching Gregory's eye with a smile. He reached for an upturned highball, righting it on the bar in front of her, as he draped the towel in his other hand across his shoulder. Ariadne did have to admit he was quite handsome when he smiled and his clear blue eyes saw only her from under his head of thick, luscious brown hair.

"Good evening Ariadne," he said warmly, "the usual?"

"Good evening, Gregory; yes, please." She watched him pour a thimbleful of what passed as rye whiskey into a glass. He swiftly slid it from the bar top, lowering it to the sink for a quick splash of water. He set it back before her, matching her small smile. "Thank you." She reached for it, swirling it around to mix the water and whiskey.

"Please tell me he doesn't make you pay for that." She turned at the unfamiliar, lightly Irish lilted voice, immediately taken aback by a man with pale green eyes and a disarming smile.

"Be nice, Michael." Gregory mock-scolded with a small smile.

"There's barely enough whiskey in there to taste," the man, Michael, turned to Gregory in protest before turning back to Ariadne, "though there's barely enough of you to handle whiskey at all." Ariadne's brows tightened in offense as the man's eyes lazily raked up and down her dress, lingering on the skin of her legs. "Come here often, do you?"

"Yes, actually; most recently. And I don't recall seeing you here before." She forced a civil note to her voice, looking to Gregory almost pleadingly to save her from this man.

"True enough. It's a little out of my way, but so few owners are gusty enough to bring in a colored band and offer genuine atmosphere." She cast a casual glance to the stage, raising her glass for a sip. "May I ask your name?" She turned back, a blush coming to her cheeks as she took in the smile across his increasingly handsome, rugged face.

"It's Ariadne."

"Ariadne?" His voice took a sinful allure as he tried the name, a smile curving about his face, making his eyes narrow intriguingly. "That's a beautiful name; unique, striking—much like you yourself."

"Careful there, Michael," Gregory cautioned, as Ariadne felt the blush grow on her cheeks, "that's Arthur's girl you're after."

"Arthur St. Clair?" Michael turned back to Gregory, watching the bartender give a silent nod. "No shit, Arthur has a girl? Well, the man has good taste." Ariadne raised her glass to hide her embarrassment, taking a long drink before turning back to Michael.

"Are you friends with Arthur?" She asked at length, hoping she was loud enough over the music.

"Oh sure," a wry smile crossed Michael's face as he stared into his drink, "Arthur and I are old pals." He raised his left hand, fingers spread, palm facing her in the low light. She gasped at the long white scar that ran from the tip of his index finger straight down through his palm to the wrist. Her eyes widened as she continued to stare, eventually moving to his pale eyes, darkened now with unpleasant memories.

"Michael, that's enough," Gregory chided with a light shake of his head, "you're not here to start trouble."

"Indeed not," Michael let his left hand fall idly to the bar, wafting his glass under his nose, "there's a special rung in hell reserved for those who waste good liquor by causing trouble." He brought the glass to his lips, draining the amber liquid with a satisfied sigh on the finish. "Damn good stuff as usual, Gregory." He offered the bartender a shake of his head, as if unable to believe such good liquor still existed in the city.

"We'll have some more next time you're back this way," Gregory said, as Michael slid from his chair, reaching for the fedora that lay idly on the bar next to him. "Have a good night."

"To you too," Michael returned with a polite nod before settling his eyes to Ariadne, "lovely to meet you Ariadne, and a word of warning in parting: be careful with Arthur St. Clair, he's a dangerous man." Something sparked in Michael's eyes as he offered a farewell tip of his head, turning from the bar to disappear through the crowd.

She let out a nervous breath, watching his sharp, dove gray suit clad form move up the stairs. She couldn't put her finger on it exactly but that parting look in his eyes completely unnerved her.

"Gregory," she asked, almost hating the nervous tone to her voice, hoping her face was more composed, "who was that man?"

"Michael Flynn, an old friend." Gregory offered a comforting smile, hating the worried crease to her brow, her slightly widened concerned eyes.

"Did Arthur really…slice his hand open?" She gulped at the end of her words, not surprised to hear it, but still finding it shocking to actually see.

"I won't lie to you, Ariadne," Gregory started softly, leaning over the bar to get closer to her, "Arthur has caused a lot of men a lot of pain doing his job. Surely you must know what he's capable of, and I don't want to see you get hurt by him."

Raw emotion tinged Gregory's words as he reached a hand forward, unable to stop himself as he let his fingers brush hers around the highball. "If things with him don't last, I would love the opportunity to prove to you criminals can be still gentlemen. You're such a lovely young lady, and no man should take advantage of that." His voice had dropped to a buttery tone, his blue eyes sincere as he held her gaze. She fought for words in the ensuing silence, beyond caring about the embarrassed blush on her cheeks, trying to draw herself out of his eyes.

A smile crept to his face as he bowed his head, eyes settling to his hand loosely over hers, pulling it back as if just realizing he shouldn't have touched her.

"I apologize if I overstepped my bounds." He said softly, hoping she would finally say something.

"You didn't, Gregory," she said with an absent shake of her head, "I…I'm flattered…thank you." She offered him a smile, dissolving into a light laugh at the end, amazed how much it helped ease her nerves.

She finished the last little drop of whiskey in her glass, brows creasing in confusion as the crowd eagerly applauded over the opening notes of the current song. The horn player belted out a lazy melody, the drums holding steady as the piano jazzed along, the pianist crooning into the microphone.

"_Hey folks, here's the story of Minnie the moocher  
She was a low down hoochie-koocher  
She was the roughest, toughest frail  
But Minnie had a heart as big as a whale_

_Hidey-hidey-hidey-hi!"_

The crowd echoed back his last line, followed by more leading from the singer and repeating from the crowd. A smile grew across Ariadne's face as she listened, able to clearly see the fun the audience was having.

"This one's always a crowd pleaser." Gregory commented, noticing her amusement as the singer worked through the second verse.

"Do you know the words?" She asked, turning back to him.

"Oh sure. After each verse, there's a lead-and-repeat section. Each singer puts their own special spin on it, makes it more fun to the audience." She turned back to the stage, nodding her head in time with the beat.

"_He took her down to Chinatown _

_And he showed her to kick the gong around  
A-hidey-hidey-hidey-hi!"_

"Hidey-hidey-hidey-hi." Ariadne sang along airily, joining the others around here.

"_WHOOOOOOOAP"_

She followed along, turning back to Gregory, confused amusement playing across her face.

"_He-de he-de he-de he!"_

Gregory's pleasing baritone voice could be heard mingling with the crowd's vocal return.

"_A hi-de- hi-de hi-de ho!" _

"Hi-de hi-de hi-de ho!"

Their warm smiles met across the bar top as applause filled the air. The laughter and appreciative cries from the crowd were so infectious. The smile grew across her face as she abandoned her empty glass, joining in the warm round of applause.

"That's a favorite around here. No one sings it better than Cab." Greg's voice was almost fond as he looked towards the stage. "Mal's starting her set soon." Ariadne's eyes widened in excitement.

"I do love her voice," her words were almost wistful, wishing she were half as talented, "she doesn't seem to sing very often though."

"No, she doesn't," Greg grabbed a towel, wiping down the smooth, gleaming surface, "truthfully, Dom doesn't like her hanging around here too much. He knows it's too dangerous, but he just can't keep her away." He tilted his head, a knowing smirk quirking his lips. "Speaking of…there she is, right on schedule, per tradition."

"Tradition?" Ariadne turned her head in the direction of Greg's gaze, jealously instantly filling her eyes. Mal was simply resplendent in a slinky, deep plum dress, her face painted with lush, smoky colors. She weaved through the tables with little care, going relatively unnoticed as she approached the bar.

"Evening, Gregory," she offered pleasantly, eyes landing on Ariadne, "and you, chérie. I haven't seen you around in a while. But I hear wonderful things from Dom."

"Wonderful things?" Ariadne put a little amused laugh on her words, curious to know what Mal had meant.

"Mmhmm," Mal's eyes twinkled mischievously in the dim light, "it's been a long time since Arthur's had a steady girl."

"Now why's that?" A cigarette appeared between Mal's lips as she lit the end.

"He takes his work far too seriously for such a young man," a stream of smoke blew through her perfectly painted lips, "but you can thank my husband for that." The women shared a small, knowing laugh as Mal turned to the bar. "Thanks, Gregory." She reached for the highball, taking a sip of the amber liquid within. "So what is Mr. St. Clair treating you to this evening?"

"He's taking me to the picture show. 'It Happened One Night.'"

"Ah yes, the dreamy Mr. Clark Gable," Mal shook her head, almost enviously, "I told Dom I want to see it soon."

"I won't ruin it for you." Ariadne teased reassuringly, looking at the older woman, almost in awe. "Do you mind…may I ask you a question?" The smile fell from Mal's face almost concernedly as she moved closer between the barstools.

"Please do, chérie." Her voice was warm, encouraging as Ariadne leveled her with a sure gaze.

"How do you reconcile all this?" Ariadne saw no point in just not being straightforward, thinking back to the proof of Michael's hand. "I mean, you know everything that Dom is or has done, and…does that make us bad people, too?" Mal tilted her head sympathetically, drawn in by the young woman's questioning, innocent eyes.

"Of course I know everything Dom has done to keep this place—he's stolen, he's threatened, he's killed. But times are so tough. We…we had nothing before this place. Arthur had nothing before this. Poor boy couldn't even afford to eat—he was starving to death in an alley when we found him, so thin and sickly." Mal's eyes flooded with tender love, shaking her head almost disapprovingly. "This life is hard on them too, you know. They know what they have to do to survive, and they need a way to escape it. That's what we do—remind them of what they're trying to accomplish."

"What is Dom trying to accomplish? If I may…" Ariadne's heart was racing with nerves, suddenly hoping she wasn't pushing Mal too far. The easy smile on the older woman's face was immensely calming.

"We want to start a family soon. But we won't bring children into this world if we can't keep them warm at night, or keep their tummies full. This place, this life," Mal looked around the Backroom with an odd mix of fondness and weariness, "will let us do just that." Understanding acceptance flooded Ariadne's eyes as she nodded. "It's like waiting for a train, almost—this place. You don't know where that train will take you, but it doesn't matter because you'll be together."

"All this doesn't seem so bad when you say it like that." Ariadne admitted, a newfound respect lacing her words.

"Besides," a playful smile brightened Mal's face as she turned towards the bar with a swish of her perfect dark curls, "if they go to such lengths to keep this place, imagine what lengths they'll go to keep you. It's flattering, non?" Ariadne couldn't help but agree, nodding as her smile widened. "Arthur needs someone like you, Ariadne. Someone to remind him that there is still some good innocence left in an otherwise harsh world." Mal stubbed out her mostly untouched cigarette, swallowing down the rest of her drink. "I need to get up there, but do enjoy the movie, chérie."

"Break a leg tonight, and thank you, Mal, really. You have really helped."

"Any time, chérie. We'd force Arthur to marry you if we could, so good luck with him." With one last smile, Mal sauntered off easily moving through the crowd as the band warmed up with chords and scales.

Ariadne wouldn't have guessed Mal was so willing to just open up to her like that. More than ever now, Ariadne longed to be just like her. She was the perfect embodiment of this glamorous, jazzy world, yet she longed for family and a life with her husband.

Mal would make a great mother someday, Ariadne just knew. She could only hope the same for herself someday. What kind of father would Arthur be? Would their children have his sharp eyes, her dark brown waves? She blushed at her train of thought, unable to believe the beaming smile on her face.

"Well you certainly look happy this evening." Arthur's precise words, laced with warm amusement did nothing to help her smile.

"Is that so wrong?" She swiveled on her stool to face Arthur, drinking in his handsome features.

"Not at all. It's a good look on you. I hope you never lose it." She slid off the stool, unable to tear her eyes from his.

"I don't want to." He met her smile before turning to the bar with a nod to the bartender.

"Thanks for looking after her, Greg." The bartender nodded in silent thanks as he poured drinks.

"Shall we?" He held out a hand invitingly towards the main staircase. Her heart fluttered as his warm hand came to rest on the small of her back, protectively, affectionately.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting for so long." His voice was soft and apologetic in the quiet marble lobby upstairs as they walked.

"I know you're there doing your job," she cast him a supportive smile, "I really appreciate Dom letting you take the night off." A little chuckle rumbled in Arthur's throat.

"Dom would let me take the whole month off if it was to spend time with you." She melted under Arthur's smile, snuggling close to his side as they made their way out of the warm Penrose lobby into the cold night air. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, holding her close as they strolled, knowing the movie house was just a few blocks up.

"Mal said something similar, you know." She said softly, hoping she hadn't said too much.

"You had a chat with Mal?" He asked, looking down to her briefly. "I didn't think I kept you waiting that long." She giggled, following his glance up the street before they crossed.

"You really didn't, Arthur," she comforted, "I showed up a little early. Dom always finds great musicians. And Mal is just so…" She fought for a word, coming up short.

"She's lovely." Arthur agreed, genuine affection relaxing his face.

"She talks about you as if you were her son." He shook his head, mildly annoyed.

"She's taken it upon herself to make up for the care I was denied in an orphanage setting." Ariadne leaned her head against Arthur's shoulder, the wool of his overcoat scratching her cheek.

"She…she said they found you starving in an alley." His hold on her shoulder tightened in painful remembrance.

"They did," he said stiffly, "they aren't much older, and they barely had two nickels to rub together, but Mal couldn't go off and leave me. Over time, I came to learn of Dom's more peculiar talents. He learned of mine, we went into business together, and here we are."

"Here you are." She echoed, rather unable to believe how normal he made the whole experience sound. She nuzzled closer into his side. "And here we are."

"I wouldn't trade that for anything." He smiled down at her, placing a kiss to her brow, his lips surprisingly warm against her chilled skin. She smiled under his touch, more and more coming to realize, that she would have to agree.

The bright lights of the movie house played over them as they neared the box office, swiftly acquiring two tickets. Ariadne thawed in the welcome heat of the interior as she shed her coat, watching Arthur toss the grateful coat check girl a nickel for her trouble.

While not the most opulent movie house in Chicago by any means, it was Arthur's favorite because of its small size and intimate atmosphere. The movie palaces were something to experience, but it made for a very impersonal setting. He wanted this outing to be as much about him and her as possible.

The usher showed them to their seats, Arthur following as Ariadne threaded through the narrow row to drop gently in her chair. She looked all around, taking in the design, the décor, having never been to this movie house before.

"I should love to go to the Uptown Theater sometime." She said absently, eyes landing back on Arthur.

"Do you think I'm made of money?" He teased, mock scolding, as her mouth fell open, eyes narrowing playfully.

"You certainly dress like you are." They both knew there was a time she would have shrank under his teasing comment, instantly trying to reassure him that it wasn't what she meant. But she was so comfortable around him now; it filled him with undeniable hope for the first time in a long time.

He leaned forward, dropping a quick kiss to her cheek as the house lights went down, lacing his fingers through hers on her lap. The smile stayed on her face, feeling silly, as she turned from him towards the screen, watching the main titles light up the room in black and white.

The film was sweet, romantic, screwball. She laughed right along with their adventure of being stranded during an overnight bus trip, of being forced to share a hotel room. The developing romance between Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert was so adorable. She wanted to steal glances in Arthur's direction from time to time to make sure he was enjoying himself. The low rumbles of laughter she heard from him were reassuring enough though.

But as enjoyable as the film was, she couldn't shake the feeling of Arthur's hand still in her lap, still wrapped around hers. He'd never been so daring to touch her as such in public before. She loved the waves of warmth it sent through her as she sat and watched.

But right after Colbert lifted her skirt, showing her leg, proving the limb is mightier than the thumb for hitchhiking, Arthur's hand shifted. He abandoned her hand, letting his warm, slender fingers come to rest against the muscle of her thigh. She breathed heavy at the touch, those earlier waves of warmth turning to bone melting tingles.

Slowly, ever so discreetly, his hand continued to shift up her thigh, sliding easily against fabric of her dress, igniting her body as never before. Her core stirred to life, driven by this man's instinctual touch. Her heart sped up, enjoying his touch, finding herself wanting to know just how much further it could go.

"_**Do you love my daughter?"**_

"_**Any guy that'd fall in love with your daughter ought to have his head examined."**_

"_**Now that's evasion!"**_

"_**She picked herself a perfect running mate—the pill of the century! What she needs is a guy that'd take a sock at her once a day, whether it's coming or not. If you had half the brains you're supposed to have, you'd done it yourself, long ago."**_

"_**Do you love her?"**_

"_**A normal human being couldn't live under the same roof with her without going nutty! She's my idea of nothing!"**_

"_**I asked you a simple question! Do you love her?"**_

"_**YES! But don't hold that against me, I'm a little screwy myself."**_

The blush was permanent on her cheeks thanks to Arthur's teasing touch, but her smile had impossibly widened on Clark Gable's confession of love for Claudette Colbert. Sure, Arthur had called her 'love', but he hadn't actually said he loved her. Her heart was full to bursting as the credits rolled, inspired by the movie to tell him so many things, on fire from his touch that felt so good.

"That was fun." Even Arthur' usual serious demeanor seemed lightened in the movie's aftermath.

"I loved Clark Gable's confession of love," Ariadne giggled, "and when he was teaching her how to properly dunk a donut. It was so sweet!" He matched her infectious little laugh as they reached the coat check. He held her coat for her as she shrugged her arms into it, feeling his hands run down her shoulders and arms as it settled. He slipped on his own coat, tucking his hat down, warm and low over his head, ducking out into the biting night air.

"It was such a perfect story," Ariadne continued to gush as they walked, "how she said she didn't know much about him, except that she loved him; but that he despises her, so he'd never possibly love her in return." She sighed almost wistfully as Arthur held her close to keep her warm. "And all those complaints he had about her—she's spoiled, she's pampered, she's thoroughly insecure—only helped him love her more! It's so perfectly romantic."

"That's how tough guys act when they can't admit how they feel," he looked around them briefly, glad to find the sidewalk mostly empty as he slowed to a stop, pulling Ariadne closer till their chests pressed together. She stared up at him in mild confusion, his handsome face lit by the distant street lamp.

"So here it is," he started gently, "you're insufferably innocent in the ways of world; you find too far too much happiness in the simplest of things; you're thoroughly insecure in your self image; your curiosity is maddening. And through it all—I love you." Her heart soared. "But don't hold it against me, I'm a little screwy myself." Her face exploded in amused elation as she laughed, throwing her arms around him as he returned her hold, picking her up to hold her ever closer.

"You're marvelous, Arthur St. Clair! Truly and absolutely. And I…I love you too. So much." Her words formed against his ear as he held her ever close, contentment flooding through him. She pulled her head back, loving the big smile that relaxed his face. His lips were on hers in a heartbeat, pouring forth everything he felt. She kissed him with abandon, relieved and happy.

Her body flared to life under his loving, incessant caress. The hard lines of his body beneath his overcoat were hard to ignore as she pressed against him, wanting only to be lost in him. He swallowed her wanton moan, holding her tighter as he stroked her tongue in velvety circles. Her mind swam, longing heat building in her core.

Her cheeks were flushed a delicious shade of pink as he pulled back, drowning in her blown-wide brown eyes. He read the loving desire in her gaze, wanting noting more than to take her in his bed and show her all that love could be.

"Would you like to come back to my place?"

xxx

Arthur had a suite at the Penrose? She didn't possibly understand how that could work. Wasn't it far too obvious? A thousand questions swam in her eyes as they walked through the grand lobby, the quiet murmur of voices and footsteps echoing off the marble and mahogany surfaces. The gold cage elevator was nothing short of eye-catching, and despite her uncertainty, she was excited to see more of what the Penrose had to offer.

She stayed close to Arthur's side as the elevator rose, appreciative of his steadying arm as she leaned in closer. The prospect of being up on the fifteenth floor was both uncomfortable and exhilarating.

"You're perfectly safe." He whispered comfortingly, indicating her arm gripping his in a tight, white-knuckled hold. An embarrassed laugh passed her lips as she loosened her hold, head jolting up as the elevator slowed, and the operator slid open the cage doors.

The heel of her black shoe sank into the plush carpet as heavy wood doors to the various suites passed. The hallway was outfitted in maroon and gold, a rich warm glow cast over everything by the subtle lighting. She loved how it softened Arthur's stern features, making him impossibly handsome, enhancing her heated, anxious butterflies.

"Home sweet home." He said softly, stopping before a golden plaque emblazoned with three numbers. 528. She cocked her head, looking at it with an amused smile.

"Granted, I don't know much about hotels, but shouldn't that be 1528?"

"The upper floor suites are numbered differently," Arthur said quietly, pulling open the solid door, "this is the only Room Number 528 in the building." She shook her head in mild amusement that of course he would have an answer. Information was his job.

She drank in the refined appointments of the suite with an eager smile. The sitting room was adorned with luxurious cream furniture, wood tables that gleamed in the warm, golden light. What looked to be a small kitchen sat off the sitting room along with various doors, presumably leading to a bedroom or two, and a washroom.

"Oh Arthur," Ariadne breathed, turning back to him with an appreciative smile, "this is just lovely. You live here?"

"Part of my Backroom salary," he explained distractedly as he dropped his hat in a small closet off the front door, his overcoat following. "Dom likes someone close by. I volunteered so he and Mal could have a home together." Her eyes met his, loving him all over again as he spoke so warmly of his friends.

"May I take your coat?" He offered softly, crossing the room towards her.

"Yes, thank you." His hands fell to her shoulders, slipping the coat down her arms, accepting her hat as she loosely checked her hair.

"Drink?" He moved more into the suite, approaching the little kitchen, not missing the surprised turn of her head.

"You have alcohol up here? Outside the Backroom?"

"Of course." A wicked smirk curled his lips as he reached for a top cabinet, pulling down a plain bottle sloshing with amber liquid.

"Perhaps a small drink, then," she called out, rubbing her hands along her arms as she stepped more into the sitting room, "it's a right cold night out." The clink of glass sounded in response, turning with a grateful smile as she accepted the heavy crystal highball. His smile was so disarming and relaxing; she couldn't help but stare up at him. He loved her lingering gaze, unable to stop from placing a soft kiss to her lips, feeling her return his gentle touch.

"Please, have a seat. I'll join you in a minute." His voice was low, temptingly enticing. Her eyes fell to the cushy looking sofa as she skirted around it, watching him disappear behind a closed door. She blew a light, maybe even nervous sigh, tapping her fingernail contemplatively against the crystal as she sank against the cushions. A smile involuntarily brightened her face as she reveled in the soft luxury of it.

Her eyes drifted up at the latch of a door handle, breath catching in her throat to see him devoid of his suit jacket. The angles of his vest cut his torso in such delicious lines, his suit trousers hugged his lower body in undeniably appreciative ways. Her cheeks flamed as she realized she was staring, catching the flash of his knowing smirk as he knelt down to the radiator. He quickly adjusted the temperature, rising and settling to the couch in one economical motion. The effect was mesmerizing, forcing herself to take a deep breath to collect herself, taking a sip of liquid courage to ask the questions she needed to.

"Arthur," she started, keeping her voice firm, her eyes questioning and open, "if I ask you plainly about the Backroom, will you answer me plainly?" His face tightened in regret and hesitation, knowing this conversation had to happen eventually.

"Honestly, I'm impressed you haven't already asked," he started, his voice resigned, "you have to understand, Ariadne—I will only tell you so much. The less you know, the safer you will be. You have to trust me on this." Her shoulders slumped slightly, equal parts touched and annoyed at his words. It was comforting to know that he wanted to protect her, but what exactly did she need protection from?

"Ok," she agreed, licking her lips anxiously, "how have the police not found and raided the Backroom yet? If I knew of it before Eames even met Jillian, then surely the police would have caught wind of it."

"Like most things, it's just a simple matter of money," Arthur took a quick sip, "Police Chief Reynolds is too practical of a man to let good money just walk out the door."

"Police bribery." Of course she should have thought of that sooner. The radio talked about bootleggers doing it all the time.

"Not in so many words." Arthur's lips quirked deviously, his eyes narrowing almost playfully.

"Then what would you call it?" She propped an elbow on the back of the sofa, sinking further into the exquisite cushions, leaning her head in her hand as she let herself drown in his eyes.

"It's more like a salary. Just consider the Police Chief a part-time employee." Her eyes lit warmly, matching her laughter as it filled the room.

"I'm sure that's how he sees himself," she dismissed, taking a small sip, enjoying the warm slide down her throat, "but doesn't your living here draw attention to it?"

"You'd be surprised how little people pay attention to that sort of detail," his voice was oddly wise, "Dom keeps this suite on permanent reserve, masquerading as a wealthy business man who always needs to bring in clients. It's easy to move around this place without being recognized, if you know how." She shook her head, in mild displeasure.

"Of course you would know."

"It's my job." His voice was comforting, yet laced with something heavier. The smile slipped from her face as she regarded him seriously.

"Have you given it anymore thought?" She asked softly. "To what job you would want, if you weren't a point man, or if the police turned on you?" She didn't want to think about any of the more severe consequences of his job.

"I have, actually," he admitted, his voice teasingly affectionate, "I blame you for it, you know. But why not law enforcement? Possibly a detective." She couldn't help but laugh.

"Now I know you're making fun of me."

"It makes perfect sense," he defended, "wouldn't the cops love to have an ex-con on the force to teach them all the tricks?"

"Ex-con implies you've been to jail." She gulped suddenly, her eyes creasing with worry. "You haven't been…have you?"

"If I'd been arrested, I'd still be in jail." She winced, her eyes falling away.

"Oh, Arthur," she said softly, "please don't say that."

"I don't want to lie to you. It's there; it's what I've done; its lead me to where I am today." He reached a hand forward, brushing the backside of his knuckles along her forearm that propped up her head."I want to say it lead me to you." He wanted to do anything to ease the lingering worry in her beautiful eyes.

"It's enough just knowing that you…kill, that you hurt," she finally let herself say it aloud, her eyes falling from his, "much less knowing that you would spend the rest of your life in prison for your…work." She debated saying 'crimes,' changing her mind at the last minute, worrying her lip. She already feared she had said too much and ruined whatever else the evening might hold.

The tip of his index finger fell to the underside of her chin, gently coaxing her head to rise, her eyes to return to him. The conviction in his gaze was overwhelming.

"Killing and hurting are only tools of survival. A necessary evil, if you will," his voice was gentle, firm, "and I will have sins to answer for someday. But that's not the way I am. When the day comes that this ends, I will walk away. Like I said, perhaps take up law enforcement. Is that really any different—carrying a gun, shooting in self defense?"

"You'd be killing bad men in that case."

"By that definition, a bad man is preventing me from doing my job of enforcing the law," he smartly returned, "by that same definition, is a man not bad for stopping me from doing my current job?" Her lips twitched in a hint of a smile.

"I suppose." She didn't want to extend the conversation further, instead taking a sip of her drink. His finger drifted up from the underside of her chin, letting the backside of his knuckles caress her cheek. He loved watching her lean into his touch, turning to brush her lips to his skin.

"You know I would never hurt you," he felt compelled to say, "nor let anyone else."

"I know," her face brightened in warm memory, "Mal told me that it was flattering, to know what lengths you and Dom go through to keep the Backroom, and to imagine what lengths you would go to, to keep us." Even this brought a warm smile unbidden to Arthur's face, relaxing the tense set of his jaw.

"She's right, you know." Suddenly Ariadne realized how close they were leaning together, unable to recall exactly how they had closed the gap on the couch.

"Is Mal the one who taught you about treating a lady as she deserves?" She echoed his words from their first dinner in the diner, loving the light laugh blowing past Arthur's lips.

"She is, yes," he answered, fond affection warming his words, "she would cook dinner for the three of us, shooing Dom off of to the living room to eat, so we could have a 'date' in the kitchen." Ariadne couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, loving the images the words conjured to mind.

"What did she tell you about inviting girls back to your place, hmm?" She asked playfully, her voice soft in the increasing closeness between them.

"To not break their hearts by promising more than I'm willing to give." His eyes locked to hers, a desire, an honesty, a question written plainly in his gaze. Heat sparked to life low in her body, flooding through her limbs, making the breath catch in her throat.

"So….," she loosed a heavy breath, "what are you willing to give?"

"Everything." Their lips met, a spark igniting to life on the lingering, devouring caress. Her mouth opened to his instinctively, tasting the alcohol on his tongue combined with something distinctly Arthur. The effect was intoxicating, the drink in her hand forgotten about. He shifted against the couch, setting his drink to the table without breaking form her kiss. She sighed unbidden against him as his fingers pried the glass from her hand, freeing them to instantly fall to the fabric of his shirt.

She tugged him closer, wanting to know what he felt like with so little clothing on. He followed her, hungrily matching her movements, sucking her bottom lip gently between his. She moaned and sighed against him, sliding down against the couch as he settled atop her, the hard lines and weight of body most welcome against her.

Every nerve was on fire, his hands caressing the skin of her neck; his lips following, nipping, kissing, tasting. His hips rocked gently into hers, letting her for the first time feel his arousal, the hard object of his obvious desire. She knew she should have been ashamed how easily she was letting her legs fall open for this man, but everything just felt too right.

God, the things this woman did to him. The mewing noises he drew out of her throat as he teased the skin just beneath her earlobe were enough to drive him wild, to tear her out of her dress and sink into her hot, tight heat. But despite his aching erection—the latest of several regarding this woman—he was not going to hurt her. This would happen at her word.

"Talk to me, Ariadne," his words were husky, voice heady, "tell me what you're willing to give, what you want to do." She looked up at him with glossy eyes, a lazy smile growing across her face.

"What do you want to do?" She questioned back, feeling the breath of a silent laugh leave him, a knowing smile growing on his face as he rolled his hips harder against hers, drinking in her soft whimper.

"If I had my way, I would already be inside you until we both couldn't see straight," the words were a near feral growl, racing heat through her blood, "but this isn't about me. It will only be what you want. You've just got to talk to me, love." He peppered soft, reassuring kisses along her neck, waiting for a response. It would indeed be torture if she rejected him tonight, but it wouldn't kill him to wait for her.

"And if…if I don't know…." A flash of disappointment sparked in his eyes, despite the comforting smile on his face as he pulled back to regard her blown-wide eyes.

"Then perhaps it's best if we stop for now." He kissed her gently, pulling a hand forward to brush his fingertips across her flushed cheek. "I will never force you, nor let you go over this."

She felt tears well unbidden in her eyes, melting further into the couch. Never had she felt like this before. Everything Arthur did to her just made her body and heart scream for more.

"I don't want to stop right now." Her gaze never faltered from his, despite the nervousness lurking in her brown depths. He had to know this was what she wanted, her choice. She craned her neck, slanting her mouth back to his. Her arms bravely wrapped around him, her fingers no longer content to just skim the lean lines of his side. He kissed her firmly, reassuringly, lovingly, shifting his weight to his knees, his body still flush to hers.

"Don't be afraid to touch me." His voice was warm, playful, nose nuzzling her cheek. An embarrassed smile came to her face as he tasted the soft skin on her neck, letting her hands truly explore him. Such firm muscles ran down his back, her fingers skimming the fine fabric of his vest, stopping just above his waist. Slowly she trailed her fingers back up, whimpering as Arthur's teeth sought her pulse point for gentle nibbles.

His free hand settled to the unattended side of her neck, gently tracing down to cup the graceful swell of her breast in his strong hand. Her mouth fell slack at the rush of feeling his hand created, increased tenfold as his thumb rubbed over the hard peak through her brassiere. Never had she known such feeling was possible.

"Arthur…" She gasped out his name, lost to the rush of feeling, the tingling connection between her breasts and the apex of her thighs.

"You like that?" His words brushed her neck, his lips following.

"Mmmhmmm," she moaned her agreement, pushing her chest up further into his touch, "very much." His slender fingers danced over the buttons lining the front of her dress.

"May I?" She nodded in response, trusting the tenderness in his brown eyes as the top buttons sprung free under his touch. His lips fell back to hers, reassuringly, cherishing the touch and taste before lowering to kiss the newly revealed flesh.

This slow pace was going to kill him if he wasn't careful. Knowing that he was the first man to show her such pleasures and bear witness to all her reactions was enough to work him to near completion. Never had he wanted like a woman this before.

The warmth of his fingers scorched the stripe of bare skin between her girdle and brassiere as they skimmed up her stomach. She squirmed against him, his lips ghosting along the top line of her brassiere, longing for his touch to return to her neglected breasts. She sharply gasped, getting her wish as he swiftly pulled down a soft cup, his mouth latching onto a pert nub.

Her body arched into him, hands cradling his head as she worked her with his tongue. She never wanted to lose this feeling, wanting so much more. He could feel her heart hammering in her chest as he sucked, loving her whimper in response.

"Arthur…." She wasn't sure what else to say, driven to push her hips into his, relishing the groan in his throat as he pushed back.

"Sit up." His voice was strained, breathy as he pulled back from the soft contours of her body, coaxing her to rise.

"What?" The word came out a confused breath, her eyes frantically searching him for any sign of regret, worry rotting in her gut. Had he really changed his mind—was he going to make them stop?

"I am not making love to you for the first time on a couch." He reassured her, his eyes full of smoldering promises. A relieved smile bloomed on her heated flushed cheeks, unable to think of a suitable response.

He leaned towards her, meeting her lips in a chaste, quick kiss as his fingers entwined with hers. Keeping her close, he lead her towards the door he emerged from earlier, searching her eyes for any sign of hesitance. She knew she ought to stop this, or let modesty overtake her as she stood in a half-unbuttoned dress in front of him. But the fire that burned in her only drew her closer to him.

She drank in the bed, so soft and plush; it alone sent a wave of anticipation down her spine. Their laced hands pulled her close to his chest, her eyes seeing only him. He nuzzled her cheek as they stood at the foot of his bed, breathing in the simple scent of her soap.

"Have a seat." He encouraged her, voice soft and inviting as she dropped with a nervous breath to the foot of his bed. He moved with her, taking a knee at her feet. His eyes fell from hers to take in her stocking clad legs, letting a hand run down the smooth contour of her calf, settling to the buckle of her black Mary Jane's.

"You're so beautiful," he kissed her cheek, nibbling her ear, as he slid off the first shoe, "so many women paint their faces, but you're perfect as you are." Her smile impossibly widened as her hands settled atop his shoulders, eager to touch him.

"You always know what to say." The words were faintly teasing, laced with love as her second shoe fell away, sighing wantonly at the smooth glide of his hands up her stocking-clad legs. Gently he eased her legs apart, inching forward into the newly created space, watching her eyes blissfully flutter.

"Only when you need to hear the truth." She pressed her lips to his, unable to keep away. His fingers skimmed over her stocking's garter clasps, gently freeing them one by one as his tongue traced hers, thoroughly tasting. Her hands ran down his clothed chest, gasping at the slide of her stocking as he pulled it free, letting his fingers explore her skin for the first time. The second stocking fell away just as quickly, her eyes opening to drink in his still clothed body.

"What about you?" She wasn't sure why she was whispering, but it felt right. "May I?" Her hands rose shakily, settling to the pristine knot of his tie. "Is this where I start?" He unwillingly abandoned the smooth skin of her legs, rising to guide her nervous hands down the buttons of his vest.

"Here." The word was a warm reassuring breath against her lips as she clumsily took to the buttons, feeling him shrug his shoulders to help her remove it. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning in him as he continued to touch her, easing her dress further down her torso, her fingers pulling his tie free.

He nuzzled the straps of her brassiere off her shoulders, sliding a hand behind her to snap the clasp. Embarrassment colored her cheeks further as her brassiere swung free, still unable to believe she was actually here, about to fall into a man's bed. She arched into the suckling pressure of his lips as he slipped beneath the smooth fabric, knowing that this wasn't just any man.

Her thighs tightened around his torso as he continued to taste, tease and enjoy. She pulled his shirt free, feeling intoxicating heat radiating from his thin undershirt as she grazed the skin of his collarbone, moving down his arms.

"God, Ariadne." He growled against her chest, mouthing at the exposed skin of her stomach, nosing at the top of her roll-on girdle. "How I want you." Liquid heat surged between her legs at the raw emotion on his voice as she reached for his undershirt.

"Help." She breathed raggedly, amused as the shirt bunched under his arms. A mirrored smile lit his handsome face as he pulled back from her stomach, lifting his arms pulling the garment free. "Look at you." She hadn't been sure she voiced the thought aloud as she took in his slim, defined chest until he chuckled softly, a hand falling to glide seamlessly up her leg.

Instinctively her legs loosened their hold around his torso, eager for his touch. She whimpered as his hand stopped high on her thigh, his thumb gliding along her panty line. She inched forward on the bed, driven instinctively to have his touch.

"Please." She didn't know what she was asking for, but felt sure he would know. He pressed his lips to hers, finally letting his fingers brush against the damp heat of her underwear. It was maddening to feel her so hot and ready for him, his teasing touch drawing sinful moans from her innocent lips.

He leaned forward, easing her slowly back against the down comforter, pulling his hand away to ease her further up on the bed. His hands settled to the top of her girdle, rolling it swiftly down her hips, hooking a thumb to catch her underwear he coaxed her hips to rise. A deep blush colored her whole body, her eyes sinking closed in a moment of shame as she lay bare before him.

"You have nothing to be ashamed for." His voice was ragged as he took in her feminine curves, his hands tracing each one slowly and reverently. "You're exquisite like this." She opened her eyes, enjoying the feel of his powerfully thin arms and chest, her fingers sliding down a firm stomach to the buckle of his belt.

She asked the question with her eyes, rewarded with the faintest of nods, his loving, hungry eyes refusing to turn from her. The buckle fumbled between her fingers before falling free, surprised to find the catch on his trousers easy to give. He shimmied out of his loose trousers, watching her eyes settle and widen on the bulge poorly concealed by his white BVD shorts.

She couldn't believe how _prominent_ it was. How…how was it even supposed to fit? Her virgin mind swam in uncertainty as he kicked his slacks free, taking note of the concern in her brown eyes. He settled beside her, propping on an elbow, watching her eyes return to his, her mouth parted in rushed breaths.

"Is this still what you want?" He hated to ask, afraid she would say no.

"Yes," she rushed the answer, licking her lips uncertainly, "its…it's just…" She couldn't form the words, modesty taking over despite laying naked beneath his mostly naked body. His lips fell to hers reassuringly as he sought her hand, clasping it gently in his. She melted under his kiss, relaxing back into the plush bed. She sighed against his touch as he brought her hand to rest against his rock-hard erection, a gravely grown in his throat as she involuntarily squeezed.

Her lips surged against his, unable to deny the straining hardness beneath her fingertips. Something about it stirred a primal instinct within her to life, making her desperate to feel as much as him as she could. His breathing dissolved into ragged pants, his hips thrusting to push himself harder into her exploratory touch.

This woman's innocence would be the death of him. Her curious fingers were maddening as she stroked him, reducing him to such an aching state. How he wanted her, _needed _her. His fingers traced the curve of her hip, brushing over her downy curls before ghosting a fingertip down over her soaking folds.

The caress tore a whimpering cry from her throat, the flames stoked higher as his finger lingered, stroking back up and over, circling a point that coiled unreleased pleasure in the pit of her stomach, curled her toes against the luxurious comforter.

"Please." She gasped against his lips, her hand tightening around him, pleading. His finger continued their mind numbing movements, teasing her in steady flicking, circles, pausing to dip down, parting her folds with easy pushes.

A dampness, familiar only from that night she first danced with him, spread between her legs as he continued to caress her, his hips bucking into her hand as her movements stilled, motor function overpowered by the movements of his fingers.

"Arthur…" His name passed her lips in a litany of prayers, breaths, pleads as he teased her, dying to bury himself in this gorgeous woman before him.

With a final teasing stroke, he forced his hand away, shifting elbows to reach for the bedside table drawer. She lay, boneless, trying to wrap her mind around the sensations he coursed through her body. A distant sound of tearing paper reached her ears as she forced her eyes to open, taking note of his discarded shorts, the length of his wrapped arousal. She drew a steadying breath, meeting his eyes as he shifted atop her, loving his desire-blown eyes.

She craned her neck, pecking his lips as he lowered down onto her, watching her mouth fall slack, drawing a pleasured breath at the contact. He smiled down at her, kissing her softly, nuzzling the shell of her ear as he pushed against her damp heat, giving her one last chance. Her hips arched unbidden against him, drawing him ever so slightly, a surprised gasp tearing from her throat.

He pushed forward, biting his tongue to keep himself from just driving into her. She stretched deliciously around him, welcoming him into her hot depths, pulling him deeper. Her breath came in deep draws, eyes shut as she adjusted to the taught pull of her body around his. He stilled ever so briefly, nudging her supportively, even regretfully.

"Is…is that it?" The words passed her lips shakily, hoping that was the worst of it. He closed his eyes as he pushed through her barrier, feeling her stiffen and tense around him, nails digging into his shoulders, a cry escaping her lips. A dull pinching, even cramping pain throbbed in her midsection as she forced herself to breathe, reminding herself this is what she wanted.

He pressed gentle kisses into her neck, feeling her body slowly relax, her fingers loosen their grip as her discomfort ebbed. His hips pulled back, sliding out and back in, loving the pleasured moan low in her throat. God, her body was everything he knew it would be—hot, tight, perfect.

He abandoned himself to the smooth, slick pull of her body, devouring her every whimper, her every cry. She writhed against him, unable to think, desperately trying to match his moves. Tension ratcheted higher with his every stroke, unknown feelings threatening to explode within her.

He canted his hips, changing the angle to a deeper, upwards stroke, tearing a guttural cry from her swollen lips. His nimble fingers slipped between them, mercilessly teasing her swollen bud, pushing himself harder.

"Arthur!"

"God, Ari…" Her name died in his throat as her dam broke, body convulsing around him in white hot spasms. She cried out into his shoulder as bolts of ecstasy shot through her limbs, arching her body into his. He fell into release with her, groaning into her neck as he rode the waves of orgasm with a last deep thrust.

The blood pounding her ears slowly subsided, leaving only their ragged, coupled breathing in the silence of the room. His lips found hers effortlessly, sinking into a luxuriously decadent kiss. Euphoria seeped through her limbs, smiling against him, drowning in his eyes warm chocolate eyes.

"Wow…,"she breathed, letting her nose brush his, "no one ever tells you it will feel like this." His soft laugh was low and rich.

"Preachers the world over wouldn't hear of it." She laughed in return, meeting him for another lazy, satisfied kiss. Her hands drifted up the damp skin of his back, carding tenderly through his raven locks.

"Rest here, love," he said softly, drinking in one last kiss, "I'll be right back." He disentangled from her embrace, rising lethargically from the bed. He pulled the covers down on the unoccupied side of the bed before moving off for the washroom. She couldn't help but watch him, admiring how comfortable he was in his own skin.

Running water sounded out of the washroom as she reached for the covers, pulling them back to slide under the soft sheet, suddenly feeling way too exposed. She held the sheet tight against her chest, unable to stop the smile as he emerged, cleaned up with a washcloth in hand, hitting the light switches, leaving only the golden glow of the bedside light.

"Glad to see you're making yourself comfortable." He pulled back the sheet opposite her, sliding under the covers as she could do nothing but smile up at him.

"What's that for?" She indicated the washcloth in his hand, as he reached for the sheet covering her nakedness.

"For you." He leaned down, placing a sweet kiss to her lips, helping her relax back against the pillow as he bared her body to the night air once more. She felt her cheeks flame as she lay nude, feeling his hands gingerly on her, the brush of the soft, warm cloth against her over sensitized skin.

She lifted her eyes to him, watching him reverently wipe and cleanse her skin. It made her feel so precious and loved. Her eyes suddenly widened, catching the bright red smudge on the otherwise pristine cloth. She struggled to prop up on her elbows, watching another red smudge appear on the cloth.

"Does…will that happen every time?" Worry laced her words as he looked to him with concerned eyes.

"No," he reassured her with a warm smile, a slight shake of his head, "the pain in the beginning, this now," he indicated the cloth, "won't happen again." There was something so final on his words, the thought just now hitting her. She was no longer a virgin, untouched and innocent. She had just given her most precious gift and she'd never get it back. And now here she was—a lover, half of a whole.

He lowered his head, pressing a gentle kiss on the inside of her thigh, tearing her from her thoughts. He steadily crawled back up her body, idly tossing the cloth off the edge of the bed. Extending a long arm, he switched the bedroom light off, plunging them into darkness.

The warm press of his body was instantly against hers, holding her close, drawing the back curve of her body tight against his front. She sighed contentedly, snuggling into the pillow as he held her close, just reveling in the simple press of skin on skin.

"Thank you for letting me stay." She whispered in the darkness, loving the nuzzle of his nose against her neck, the possessive hold of his arms, the feel of his thigh slipping between hers.

"I don't ever want to let you go."

**xxx**

** A shout-out to all my fellow "Blues Brothers" fans with Cab Calloway's "Minnie the Moocher."  
**

**If you haven't seen "It Happened One Night," and you can stand black & white movies, I would highly, highly recommend it.  
**

**And I have to thank Mr. Tarantino for enlightening me to the special rung of hell reserved for those who waste good Scotch (alcohol). And not so coincidentally, I've imagined Michael Flynn after the devilishly handsome Michael Fassbender, teehee. **


	5. The event

**Egads. I want to apologize…I did not anticipate being this busy when I started posting this thing. But my husband whisked me away for our anniversary (love you, puddin'), we had to deal with family drama for Thanksgiving, and we're into full-scale Halloween preparations. But for now, it's a crisp fall day, I'm wrapped in a blanket with my tea and life is good. **

**First off, to my two lovely Guests – Thanks for taking the time to drop a line! I'm glad to hear you're enjoying my work. As to how things play out, please keep reading, muhaha. **

**And now for the main event…Thank you all for reading! **

**Chapter 5: The event**

Her eyes opened to bright morning light bathing the room in warm hues of morning. She rolled over in the fine, soft sheets, loving the decadent slide of the material against her bare skin as she settled into the pillow beside her. It smelled of spice and masculinity. Of Arthur. A lazy, content smile warmed her face as she snuggled deeper, not minding his missing presence. Ever since that first morning, he always rose before she did. But he never went far.

She stretched against the plush mattress, reveling in the slight ache of her intimate muscles, a relaxed yawn leaving her. In the three months that she'd started sharing Arthur's bed, each morning proved more difficult to leave its warm, cushy confines.

The soft turn of a door handle, accompanied by a gentle clank of metal against porcelain drew her eyes back open, unable to stop her growing smile. Arthur always managed to look dashing in the morning, whether half-dressed for the day or still clad in his bathrobe. Her favorite were the mornings—like this one—where his hair was loosely combed and his amazingly soft robe wrapped around his trim form. The smile on his face spoke volumes as he looked down at her, a tray covered in silver shiny lids in his hands.

"If not for me, I think you would sleep here all day." His voice was soft, playfully teasing.

"It's a wonder you can pull yourself out of this bed," her voice was thick with the last tendrils of sleep, "especially with me in it."

"As enticing as it is to hold you all night long, it's equally enticing just knowing that you're waiting in my bed, exclusive to me whenever I return." She loved the possessive note on his voice, watching him set the tray on the end of the bed, reaching to undo the tie of his robe. Ever the gentleman, he passed it to her as she sat up, keeping the sheet close to her chest until she worked the robe up her arms and snuggled against its warm softness.

He knew exactly what she was wearing beneath his sheets (nothing), and he never wanted to place her in an uncomfortable situation as such. Despite her initial embarrassment with her body, she relaxed and opened up to him considerably in the nightly hours, but come morning, her modesty always returned in full form. The warm, appreciative glances she cast him, eyeing his boxer and undershirt clad form as he moved the tray towards her, were always worth it.

"So what's for breakfast this morning?" She asked as he settled beside her, propping up pillows and smoothing out the sheet to make room for the tray.

"French toast, strawberries and fresh-squeezed orange juice." Her eyes widened in pleasant surprise, her stomach rumbling as if on cue.

"You know you're spoiling me, yes?" Waffles, pancakes, cinnamon rolls, omelets, crepes…the wide array of breakfast delicacies Arthur was introducing her to were all so tasty and delicious. And always delivered to her, ate in the cozy confines of the plush bed, tucked against Arthur's side.

"Don't you think you deserve some pampering?" He simply asked, removing the silver lid to expose the golden toast spotted with powdered sugar and topped with strawberries.

"It is certainly a nice change." Never before had she eaten food so fine, or slept in sheets so soft, always so pleasantly warm. It made the cold, lonely, uncomfortable night at her and Jillian's apartment downright miserable by comparison.

"Then let me spoil you." He reached for a strawberry, holding it out for her, watching her bite into the red fruit. A noise of approval hummed in her throat as he finished off the berry, reaching for the syrup pitcher.

"I think I'd have to say strawberries are my favorite," Ariadne's voice was light and dreamy, "they always remind me of summer."

"Now why's that?" Arthur asked interestedly, drizzling syrup over the toast.

"Before times got hard, back home with the neighborhood kids, we'd spend the days playing and swimming in the river. And the bait shop keeper's wife would always give us fresh strawberries and lemonade. They never had children of their own, so she was always excited to hear us talk of the day's adventures." Her tone had grown wistful, giving a light shake of her head. "But after the fall…we all had to start finding work wherever we could, and there were no more strawberries."

"Sounds like it was hard to let go of." Arthur offered, forcing g a sympathetic note to his voice. He only wished he had a story half as uplifting from his childhood.

"Life has seldom been kind since. You have shown me things I could only ever dream about before." She reached out for a fork, eyes widening to realize the implications of her words. "Not to say that's why I love you—you mean so much more to me than all this."

"Relax, love," he reassured her with a sideways glance and smile, hands busy at work to cut the French toast into bite-sized pieces, "I know what you meant." She looked to the plate on the tray, almost embarrassed. Leave it to him to make her feel like a grown woman one minute, and a silly little girl the next. She reached the fork forward, spearing a bite, running if through the puddle of syrup before bringing it to her lips.

The cinnamon and butter on the toast was heavenly, forming a perfect combination with the sweet syrup.. She reached forward again for another bite, noticing Arthur turn towards her with an appraising glance as she wrapped her lips around the fork, getting every last drop of syrup.

"Mmmm, these are my new favorite," she swallowed her bite, a pleased smile growing on her face, "pancakes and waffles are boring my comparison." He laughed softy through his bite, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

"I would have to disagree with you," he started, giving his head a quick shake, "waffles are simpler, easier. Still a bread with a sweet finish, but a purer flavor."

"Mmm, but those extra flavors make it so much better," Ariadne countered in between bites, "maybe you only prefer the simplicity of waffles because you have been spoiled by such good food. How many years have you been eating French toast regularly?" Arthur cast his eyes ceiling-ward, recalling the years.

"Four, maybe five." She nodded slowly, almost unable to believe his words. Was it really true? With a slow smile, she pushed her thoughts aside, deciding not to waste the present time with him.

"Well give me four, maybe five years of eating food so fine before I prefer the simple dishes."

The French toast and strawberries steadily disappeared between them, conversation intermittent accordingly. This was how every morning should be, she decided—warm, happy, full. She placed her fork in the puddle of remaining syrup, running the prongs through to thoroughly coat them. Cupping her hand to catch stray drops, she brought the fork back to her mouth, reveling in the simple pleasure of a mouthful of syrup.

She licked her sticky lips, moving the fork back to the plate to cover it in the remaining syrup. She noticed Arthur's amused smile out of the corner f her eye as she brought the fork back to her lips, frowning slightly at the drops that fell to her hand.

"Don't look at me like that." She lightly teased, pointing at him with the clean fork. "You shouldn't let such good syrup go to waste."

"So I should eat it from my fork in the absence of toast?" He offered in a playful, condescending tone.

"Do you have another suggestion?" She set her fork down, reaching for a napkin to clean her hand.

"I'd rather eat syrup off you." His voice had dropped an octave, laced with lustful mischief. She turned to him with an uncertain look, forgetting about the napkin as he took her hand gently in his, rubbing his thumb lazily across the back of it. "May I?" His eyes fell to her syrup spotted hand, encouraged by her silence.

He bowed his head, his tongue darting out between parted lips to delicately lick up the bulk of the drop on her palm. His lips followed to fall against her skin as his tongue continued to caress her. Slowly he worked his way across her hand, towards a drop on her index finger, slipping her finger loosely inside his mouth to better remove the sticky syrup. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, his touch stoking a smoldering fame higher, a ripple of needy heat stirring her core to life.

His eyes met hers, his lips lavishing her hand lazily. He loved the rapid rise and fall of her chest through his robe, the flush of arousal coloring her cheeks. His own arousal was becoming uncomfortable, but it could wait. He placed one last kiss to her hand, holding it tight in his as he leaned his body into hers, forcing her gently back against the pillows.

"Lay back." His voice was husky, thick with want, further exciting her as she settled back against the pillows, sliding down to stretch out her torso. Her core throbbed with wanton desire, her breathing nervously excited. He had only ever exposed and touched her in the dark of night…was she really going to let this happen now?

She watched with wide, almost nervous eyes as he set the tray aside, sliding down her body, pulling the sheet with him to expose her wrapped in his robe. His hands fell to the sides of the robe, pulling them back to only reveal the smooth expanse of her stomach.

"Relax, love," he soothed, pressing a gentle kiss against her warm skin, "you're beautiful—nothing's different this morning than it was last night." An embarrassed blush overtook her cheeks, almost ashamed he could sense her discomfort and felt the need to reassure her. She gasped with a ticklish laugh as he poured a warm, thin drizzle of syrup on her skin, starting just underneath her ribcage, circling her navel and ending low on her stomach, right where the robe covered her intimate areas.

She tilted her head on the pillow to watch as he loomed over her, peppering either side of his syrup trail with reassuring, teasing kisses. At length his hot tongue settled to the syrup just atop her naval, slowly working its way up towards her ribs. She giggled softy at the ticklish sensation, letting her hands fall to comb through his hair, suddenly longing to feel his lips on hers in the sticky aftermath.

He moved back down her body, slowly lapping up the circle around her naval, letting his hands fall to her thighs, pushing up underneath the bathrobe. She arched her hips involuntarily, the heat growing and ache rising between her legs, just where she increasingly wanted him.

The taste of syrup on her skin was intoxicating, alternating strokes of his tongue with caresses of his lips, occasionally letting his teeth nip the fair skin splayed before him. He ran his tongue loosely, lazily down the syrup trail towards the apex of her thighs, desperate to just push the ends apart and drink her in. Purposefully he pushed his tongue back against her skin, working back up the sweet trail, letting his hands slide up her thighs, feeling the heat emanating off her as he rested high on her legs.

Her breath caught to feel him so close, yet not actually touching her. Did he know how much torture this was? He pressed gentle kisses back down the syrup trail he just traced, loving the slow undulations of her hips. Despite his own aching need, he was going to take his time in devouring and releasing her, savoring her every reaction.

She lolled her head back against the pillow, loving the sensations his simple touches were sending through her body. Her breath caught in her chest, overcome with pleasure as he swiftly nuzzled the folds of the robe apart, running his tongue solidly against her slippery slit.

Her hands clenched in his hair, gasping moans of ecstasy passing unbidden from her lips, surrendering herself completely to the circles of his hot, velvety tongue, the addition of his long slender fingers and the gentle sucking nibbles of his teeth.

xxx

"Mmmm, this lemonade's not half bad."

"Stay sharp, Eames."

"It's not alcoholic, and we've been sitting here half an hour. When's the lady due back from church?"

"Nine." Arthur's eyes flitted to the kitchen clock on the wall, lit faintly with moonlight. _9:13 pm_.

It was always easy to sneak into farmhouses. The hinges were usually worn, or doors were just left unlocked. They could hear Boggsy messing around in the barn, no doubt cultivating his illegal liquor, leaving them to occupy an otherwise unoccupied kitchen.

Arthur couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for Mrs. Boggs. She probably had no idea what her husband was mixed up in, let alone that he had tried to double-cross them. But at least this method always got the point across. Everyone always screamed at discovering two, unknown well-suited men sitting casually at their kitchen table.

"We have headlights," Eames mumbled into the glass, turning to Arthur with a questioning smile, "sure you don't want some?"

"No." Arthur fixed his eyes out the window, watching the headlights pull away. Clearly someone had dropped the missus off. That would certainly make it cleaner. Boggsy probably wouldn't even know she'd come home yet. He could only hope Boggsy would be able to hear her over the hiss of his boiler.

The bang of a front porch screen door echoed through the otherwise empty house, both men sitting stock still, deadly silent. Heeled footsteps sounded against the worn wood floors, drawing closer. Faint light spilled in from the living room, a woman clad in a plain brown dress rounding the doorframe, absently reaching for the light switch.

Arthur squinted in the newfound brightness, eyes never leaving the woman, who froze in place, eyes wide and terrified.

"Wh-who are you?" She stammered, shrinking back in the doorway, eyes darting nervously between them.

"Business associates of your husband, Mrs. Boggs," Arthur calmly answered, a clipped smile gracing his face, "would you be kind enough to call him in, please?"

"C-call him in?" She stammered, rubbing her hands nervously together, stepping against the wall in a nervous cower as Eames rose, the silver gleam of a knife in his hand. "He-he-he's out in the barn!" She pleaded, bottom lip quivering. "I don't know what you want—"

"Just scream for me, darling."

Boggsy's head shot up on the sound. Surely that wasn't Martha? Or was she back from the church meeting already? He frowned, abandoning his precious liquor bottle for the shotgun next to the barn door.

"Martha?" His voice carried across the small yard as he approached the house, jamming two rounds into the twin barrels. Silence reigned from the house as he called out once more.

His boots clomped heavily up the stairs onto the porch, roughly throwing open the backdoor, gun poised. He froze at the sight of Martha, trembling and terrified, held tight by Eames, a glimmering knife across her throat.

"Eamesy?" Boggsy froze, color draining from his face, eyes drifting to Arthur, who still sat calmly at the kitchen table.

"Boggsy, put the gun down," Arthur started, his voice soft, commanding, "you can't fire off a shot before Eames rakes that knife across Martha's pretty little throat."

"Vernon, please!" She pleaded, tears streaming down her face, gulping against the sharp metal. Eyes wide with fearful shock, Boggsy sat the gun down, stammering for words.

"You—you're supposed t'be in jail—least he is." Boggsy's eyes settled to Eames.

"We both should, no thanks to you," Arthur kicked out the chair next to him, his tone sharp, "have a seat." Numbly Boggsy moved for the chair, settling uneasily against the hard chair back.

"You weren't there th'other night." Boggsy eyed Arthur wearily, watching nothing about his expression change.

"I'm offended you don't recognize me." Boggsy's brow furrowed, studying Arthur harder, recognition dawning.

"Arthur?"

"Arthur St. Clair, to be exact." Boggsy forced a hard, nervous swallow.

"You're _that_ Arthur? Heard tell ya worked fer sumone else. I thought…I thought you were jist a kid who lost his way."

"Hardly; though I doubt any man in my position—lost kid or not—would appreciate that stunt you pulled." Arthur leaned in close on the table, eyes boring into Boggsy's, Martha's whimpers in the background. "What exactly did you hope to gain by calling the cops on us?" Boggsy looked mournfully to Martha before settling back to Arthur, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"The cops, they caught me," he started dejectedly, "caught me brewin'. Threaten't burn my barn; throw me and the missus in jail, unless I hep'ed them. So I gave 'em the first name I thunk of—the Penrose Backroom."

"You're not the first." Arthur curtly offered.

"It's a wonder the cops still believe all that." Eames added, amusement coloring his words.

"Vernon? What?" Sadness crept to the terrified lines of Martha's face as she regarded her husband.

"Well I'm afraid any future deals you make with the cops will be between you and them, as our business ends here," Arthur rose, nodding at Eames before turning back to Boggsy, "if you take any further steps to compromise our business, call the cops on us, even visit the Backroom for a drink—we will return and finish what we started."

A scream of terror and pain left Martha as Eames sunk the knife into the soft skin of her neck just deep enough to draw a slim line, droplets of blood escaping the wound. Leaving her pained sobs and quivering form in Boggsy's arms, Arthur and Eames coolly made their way outside to the car, leaving the quiet farm in the dust.

Arthur's earlier twinge of guilt had long turned stomach wrenching, his thoughts drifting to Ariadne. What if someone threatened her like that? Would he be as helpless as Boggsy was? The thought sickened him, forcing a hard swallow in effort to calm his mind and clear away such maddening thoughts. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, not daring a look over at Eames though he could feel the Englishman's eyes on him.

"It wasn't her," Eames started softly, always more perceptive than Arthur gave him credit, "you're smarter than him. You won't place her in a situation like that." Arthur continued to stare straight ahead, debating whether or not to deny Eames' words.

"You don't know that," Arthur started softly, his voice bearing more emotion than Eames had heard from him in a long while, "I've always played this game with nothing to lose; now I have someone."

"You care for her that much?" Eames' voice was devoid of all teasing, his gray eyes genuine as he met the raw truth in Arthur's eyes in the moonlight.

He never thought he'd see the day the point man would fall so hard for someone. Hell, Eames had known the man for six years, and barely knew any hard facts about him. But Eames introduces Ariadne to Arthur, and the man falls apart in just seven months. A wave of jealousy overtook Eames as he turned back to the road, silence falling in the car. Would he be so lucky?

Neither man cared to break the comfortable silence that reigned as they wove through the city streets, ending back up at the abandoned alleyway. After a quick slunk through the sewer, they found themselves back in the cozy confines of the Backroom, jazzy tunes and low laughter in the air.

"What took so long?" Dom hissed as he made his way over to them, face hard.

"Wife stayed late at church." Eames offered by way of lame excuse, scanning the place. "We got trouble?"

"Gregory never showed in time for opening. I've been manning the bar myself." Eames snorted a laugh.

"Why don't I take over? You must be sorely out of practice." Eames cracked a cocky smile, shedding his suit jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves to reveal solid forearms as he moved for the bar.

"Want me to go check him out?" Arthur asked, forcing a soothing note on his voice. Dom wasn't always the calmest when things didn't go according to plan. Especially in this high risk business when a missing employee could mean so many bad things.

"If you would," Dom answered with a quick nod, "if there are any signs of waiting police or signs that he was arrested, get out immediately. I won't lose my point man and bartender in the same night." Arthur's lips quirked in an amused smile.

"Leave it to me; I know what to look for." Dom nodded appreciatively, absently wondering how he'd managed to snag the best point man in the business. He was always unflinchingly calm, keeping track of all the details and drops while maintaining a detached air of professionalism.

Dom watched Arthur's calculating eyes narrow slightly, his gaze fixed on the staircase. Dom turned in the same direction, eyes widening in confused surprise at the sight that greeted him across the dim room.

Gregory was threading through tables with a rather unimpressed look on his face. Gone were his plain button-up shirts and wool pants, replaced with a well tailored, fine fabric three piece suit. His brown hair was stylishly coiffed and he walked with a more dignified, polished air than either man had guessed him capable of. But it was the man following close on his heels that made Dom's heart stop. It was none other than a plainclothes Police Chief Walter Reynolds.

"What the hell?" Dom ground out confusedly, watching the two men slide into a booth, Gregory's head moving in a negative shake as he spoke to the chief.

"I don't know." Arthur grit, hating that it was actually true. Had he missed something?

"Shit." Dom hissed, releasing a pent-up frustrated sigh, stepping forward with Arthur close behind.

"Evening, Walter; Gregory." Dom put a warm tone to his voice, offering each man a smile. "Do we have a problem?"

"You know, I have always hated that name," Gregory's voice was pompously smug, ice blue eyes unflinching, "I much prefer Robert. Robert Fischer, to be exact." Arthur stiffened, immediately familiar with that name, and the overlord father, Maurice.

"Well, Mr. Fischer," Dom's smile fell away, eyes narrowing on the former bartender, "it's certainly nice to finally meet you."

"Spare me the pleasantries," Robert dismissed, annoyed, "sit." Dom slid into the booth, eyes never leaving Fischer's. Arthur looked to the bar, catching Eames' eye and beckoning him with a quick gesture.

"Calling Eames over won't help your position, you know," Robert flicked his gaze to Arthur temporarily before settling back to Dom. "Not when I have Chief Reynolds to my right."

"Now that I am curious about," Dom fixed his angered gaze to the unconcerned looking policeman, "why are you here exactly, Walter?"

"Mr. Fischer doesn't want this little meeting to turn ugly." Walter lamely answered, looking to Robert for support.

"It's just a precaution, really," Robert's words were aloof despite his serious tone, "this'll be simple—"

"No it won't." Dom cut him off, their eyes locked as Eames and Arthur shared a gaze over their heads.

"I have it on good authority your Backroom only exists because of the arrangement you have with Chief Reynolds here." Robert withdrew a slim black pocketbook on his words.

"What's that?"

"Good authority." Robert waved the pocketbook briefly, opening it to skim the pages. "Fortunately for us, Chief Reynolds here is quite meticulous with his records—keeps a listing of every monthly installment from the Backroom. Rather an impressive tally over the years, I must say." Arthur stiffened at Dom's side, his right hand itching for the gun in his shoulder holster.

"Now, it's fair to say that neither you nor Chief Reynolds here want this little book out in the public eye, so that leaves me with a wide open playing field." A devious little grin grew on Robert's face. "It was just a simple matter of threatening to ruin Chief Reynolds' career and offering him more than what this book documented to get his support for a Fischer Empire run Backroom."

"Absolutely not." Dom grit out.

"With all due respect, it's not up to you. You've already lost—the Backroom is mine." Robert didn't bother to hide his smug victory. "I know Chief Reynolds won't hesitate to make an arrest of any men I don't want in my joint."

"There are worse things than jail time, Robert," Dom fired back, "don't you think if I've managed to stay in business this long I have enough money and connections to stay free and clear, despite whatever arrangement you have with Chief Reynolds?" Robert sighed almost sadly.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but knowing you as I do, I didn't figure you would step down over such a minor detail," he reached for an interior jacket pocket, Arthur's fingers instantly settling for his gun, "but what about Mal? Would you give it up for her?" Dom stiffened, his face tight, livid as Robert produce a single, black curl from his jacket, laying it squarely in the middle of the table. A faint smile came to Robert's face as he watched all three men stare down at the small lock of hair, gun forgotten at Arthur's side.

"You son of a bitch," Dom growled menacingly, eyes ablaze with wild anger, "if you have hurt her in _any_ way—"

"You do as I say, and with one phone call, she's waiting for you at home in one piece. Minus, this curl of course." He gestured to it dismissively. Arthur's eyes moved to Dom's face, seeing the losing battle written over the man's flustered features. Dom's arm jerked, body twisting as Arthur reached with instinctive speed to catch his boss' hand just above Arthur's gun holster.

"Dom, no." Arthur grit out, hoping the other man would turn to him for just a minute. Just enough to break through the cloud of overwhelming anger.

"Yes Dom," Robert agreed, mock-sincerity on his voice, "you might be able to get away with selling illegal liquor, but committing murder in front of the Chief of Police would be tough to swing."

"Dom, don't," Walter shook his heavy, mustached head, face blank, "we're too good of friends for you to go out like this."

"You think that's what we are?" Dom spat. "Friends don't betray friends." Walter sighed with a sad shake of his head.

"Don't act so hurt," the chief's tone wasn't exactly remorseful, "you've still got your pit bull Arthur who will never leave your side. If I didn't know about Mal, I'd swear he was your bitch." Arthur's face hardened on the insult, leveling the chief with his sharp, dangerous glare. Maybe he had stopped Dom a moment too soon.

"Well this has been lovely," Eames' voice held no such sentiment, "we really must meet again sometime, but for now we have to go." He clapped a strong hand to Dom's shoulder, forcefully pulling the lighter man from his position, jarring him enough to move him, Arthur reluctantly following.

"Cute as always, Mr. Eames," Robert called nonchalantly, "but I want it understood that none of you are invited back, and should you be caught loitering at _my_ joint, I can't say you'll be leaving here in one piece."

"Enjoy yourself, Fischer. For now." Eames' tone had a dark threat of a promise as he steered a fuming Dom and Arthur away from the table.

xxx

"That little…rat…_bastard_!" Dom ground out through clenched teeth, pacing the fine carpet of Arthur's sitting room in anger, running a hand through his well-coiffed hair in frustration. "And to think, I _trusted_ him!"

"We all trusted him. Not just you." Eames offered sympathetically from where he leaned against the back of the plush sofa, hand clenched tight around a worn wooden game chip, fingernails digging in the aged wood.

"You," Dom's eyes fixed on Arthur who stood silently by the window, overlooking the city lights, "this is your fault—this was your job, dammit. We were totally unprepared for that!"

"You know as well as I, the information available on the Fischers is sketchy at best. The man keeps a low profile, and his son effectively hides in his shadow. Or so they said." An undercurrent of anger rang on Arthur's controlled, clipped words. "But it's clear now how they so easily infiltrate and take over other places." A faint smile curved about his thin lips, fully acknowledging the genius of it. "There were no pictures of Robert Fischer to be had. I didn't know he was in town, but dammit if I shouldn't have."

"Someone had to know," Eames mused, his eyes distant as they focused on the plush carpet, "and odds are that someone was already bought off by Fischer to keep his mouth shut. Is loyalty only worth the highest bidder in this town anymore?"

"Of course someone knew," Dom snapped, fixing his blazing gaze on the Englishman, "we should have known! He was able to get to Mal without any of us so much as smelling a rat. Please tell me what I pay you two for?" Arthur's brow drew to a sharp crease, turning from the black night before him to glower at Dom.

"Taking out your anger on us won't help you get the Backroom back," Arthur sneered, his frustration tightly coiled, "don't think we haven't risked our neck for you for years for _nothing_. We have as much invested downstairs as you do. So he fooled us all—good for him. Now it's our turn."

"We're down with not much left to play," Eames offered, trying to take inventory of what assets they still possessed, "and Fischer's got Walter. He allowed us to make all the moves we wanted, provided the kickback was generous."

"We don't need him really," Arthur scoffed, a hint of disgust flitting across his serious face, "the man's perpetually incompetent, and his police force isn't far behind him. Our best chance is to go after the man himself—Fischer."

"Just how do you suggest we get close to him, huh?" Dom countered, again raking a hand through his hair, before crossing his arms against his chest. "He knows all of us quite well. We won't just be able to waltz in the Backroom or trail him on the street without risking exposure. He has to be expecting some sort of retaliation."

"That's why we have to outthink him." Arthur simply said as though it was the simplest concept.

"We've done a bang-up job of that so far." Eames commented dejectedly, a silence falling between the three men. A light knock sounded on the heavy door, earning the cautious glare from two pairs of eyes.

"You don't suppose..." Dom ventured curiously, absently reaching for his hip even though he wasn't armed.

"No," Arthur grumbled, almost annoyed, "it's Ariadne." Sure enough he pulled open the mahogany door to reveal Ariadne's smiling face, her doe eyes and loose brown curls framed by the maroon cloche hat with black band he knew so well.

"Good evening," she greeted, her smile falling as very little on Arthur's countenance changed, "what's wrong? Arthur?" He cast a cautious glance down the hall, stepping aside to pull her gently in the room. "Arthur, what—" She stopped at seeing the perched form of Eames on the sofa and Dom standing in the middle of the room. Both men looked on the verge of pouncing and tension hung thick in the air, forcing a sudden hard, nervous swallow down her throat. She turned questioningly curious eyes back to Arthur.

"Not a word of this leaves the room," Arthur started softly, voice gentle yet commanding, "our bartender, Gregory, is the son of our biggest competitor. His real name is Robert, and in the time he worked for us, he managed to swing police support to his side, and ousted Dom." Her eyes widened as Arthur talked, unable to believe it.

"Gregory did all that?" She glanced hesitantly to Dom. "He took the Backroom from you? Meaning he runs it now…?"

"Robert Fischer isn't one to be underestimated," Eames offered before Dom could fire off a biting response, "we didn't know what the man looked like. A true advantage for him. And yes, he has control of the Backroom now. All of us are effectively banned—I would imagine that means you too."

"She never would have been in the Backroom if not for me, Eames." Arthur pointed out with a glare.

"Officially, it was my invitation to her roommate that got her there, and then to you." Eames countered with a flash of an unconcerned smile.

"That doesn't help solve anything." Dom snapped, in no mood for the usual banter between his employees and friends.

"Are…are you going to try to take the Backroom back from him?" Ariadne asked curiously, looking to Arthur for confirmation.

"We will. Once we form a plan and have more information." Arthur shortly answered.

"The problem, darling," Eames cut in, his gray eyes locking to Ariadne's, "is getting close to the man. He knows all of us, and threatened us directly should we return to the Backroom." Ariadne bit her lip nervously, suddenly debating with herself. Slowly her eyes settled back to Arthur, trying to decide just how much she was willing to risk for him.

"C-can I help at all?" She hated the nervous squeak on her voice, watching Arthur's gaze narrow in on her with a confused, yet pensive look.

"Robert knows you're in league with Arthur," Dom's tone was slightly less than cordial, "anything you did would be suspicious and put you in harm's way. After what he did to Mal, we know he won't hesitate to hurt you if he thinks it will get to us."

"What happened to Mal?" Ariadne blurted out, looking at Dom pleadingly. "Is she alright?"

"I imagine she'll be shaken up, but Robert assured me no harm would come to her if I stepped down from the Backroom." Ariadne forced another nervous swallow on Dom's words, wishing Arthur would wrap her up in a comforting hug.

"We'll figure it out," Arthur said at length, "it's only been an hour that we've been mulling over the options." Ariadne's eyes lit with sudden inspiration.

"May I offer an idea?" She asked looking rather timidly between the three tightly wound men. "Gregory—Robert—told me one night that if things with Arthur and I didn't last, that he'd love the opportunity. I can't be sure if he meant that as part of his cover…but if I can convince him Arthur and I aren't…together anymore, perhaps that will help you somehow?"

"When did he tell you that?" Arthur's voice dropped to a velvety dangerous, near jealous tone.

"A few months back…when I came to the Backroom before we left for the movies." A blush came to her cheeks, matched by a coy smile as she remembered just what the rest of the night had entailed.

"He won't believe you so easily," Eames gave a dismissive shake of his head to accompany his words, "we don't need to risk your life by letting you get caught in a lie."

"Even if he would believe her, I wouldn't let her." Arthur cut in, watching her eyes settle determinedly to his.

"You wouldn't let me help?" She asked in disbelief. "Even if I could offer you help? Didn't I just give you an idea? Eames said it himself—the trouble is getting close to the man. I have a chance that none of you have."

"You crawling to Robert on bended knee tonight or tomorrow would only be all too obvious," Dom reiterated, almost irritated the woman was being so insistent, "you would have to be roughed up to even stand a chance." Silence fell as all four registered Dom's words.

"Absolutely not." Arthur ground out, daring Eames to offer a smart remark.

"That's a good angle," Eames agreed, not minding Arthur's death glare, "a bruise—or better yet a black eye—would do wonders for credibility."

"A heated argument," Dom continued to speculate, "Arthur's angry and frustrated by the events tonight, takes it out on Ariadne, she leaves him…."

"I won't allow it." Arthur tried again, his voice leaving no room for questions, hating the increasingly nervous look on Ariadne's face. She did not need to get involved in their mess. Their world was dangerous, and he didn't want her anymore apart of it.

"It sounds convincing to me…" Ariadne said softly, unconvincingly. "I…I know how much this means for you three…and Mal. If I can help, I do want to."

"It's too dangerous—you'd be risking your life." Arthur explained, hoping to inject a needed dose of reasoning to this line of preposterous thinking.

"And that's different than you risking your life to take the Backroom back?" Ariadne fixed her eyes to Arthur, offense sparking in her brown depths. "You want me to sit at home while you come up with a plan of your own? From what I hear, you don't have anything better at the moment. Surely you need to move sooner rather than later before Robert establishes himself in the Backroom."

"You don't know the first thing about this world—how these type of men think, the lengths they will go if they suspect you, the scrutiny you will be under, the rules for communicating with us." Arthur stopped just short of mentioning the lack of time they would be able to spend together, the strain it would put on their young relationship.

"Then tell me, teach me. I want to help you. I…I know it will be dangerous. I know that's the world you live in," her voice took a faintly pleading tone, her face falling almost sadly, "am I not enough apart of your world, Arthur? Or do you really just not want me in your…world?" Her cheeks took an embarrassed tinge as she remembered Eames' and Dom's presence in the room. A strained sigh seemed to leave Arthur as he crossed the distance between them, her heart surprisingly racing.

"Ariadne, if I have a choice," his voice dropped to a quiet note, trying to have a private discussion in front of his friends, "I would never let you out of my world, but I'd spend my life protecting you from it."

"Then give me a chance to prove that maybe you needn't spend the effort." A relieved smile came to her face as she watched his jaw clench in acceptance, his eyes clouding with concern.

"A black eye, bruised and swollen cheek would do the trick." He said louder, turning to Eames and Dom slowly. "I do have a reputation for dangerous anger anyway. Whether or not Robert's invitation to you was genuine, no man would turn away an abused, sobbing woman seeking comfort." Gently he raised a hand, running his thumb over the smooth skin of her cheek, unable to believe he was actually accepting this.

"Tonight, then," Dom's voice dropped to a gentler tone, seemingly relieved they had a plan, "for this to hold any water, it has to be fresh. Thank you Ariadne, truly. I would send my own wife in if she had the chance." Ariadne forced a smile to her face, fighting back a nervous sigh.

"I just hope this will actually work…and be worth it." She wished she sounded more confident.

"These are tough days. Lots of people barely have enough to make ends meet. The ability to make money comfortably is worth everything. Particularly when it's taken away from you so unjustly." She debated mentioning that technically there was nothing just about running an illegal speakeasy, but thought better of it, instead offering a silent acknowledgement. She turned back to Arthur, heart wrenching to see the concerned, weary, calculating look on his handsome face.

"Tell her what she needs to know," Dom's eyes settled to Arthur's, his tone instructive, "then send her down." Arthur nodded mutely, as Eames and Dom moved for the door. "We'll leave you two to it."

"If you need any help—"

"No, thank you Eames. If anyone is going to hit my girlfriend, it's going to be me." Arthur flinched on the end of his words, hating how they sounded. Despite everything he had done, violence towards a woman was a line he personally had not crossed.

The door closed softly in their wake, silence hanging thick in the air as neither looked at each other. Her stomach clenched in knots as she actually thought on what she'd volunteered to do. Could she really fool Gregory—Robert? She would have to be—act—romantically interested in him, and who knew how far that would go. At least she did find him somewhat physically attractive.

Arthur closed the space between them before she had a chance to find words, bending his head in one fluid movement to settle his lips against hers. She melted into the pull of his arms as he held her close, finding her ever eager to return his slow, deep kiss. A kiss of comfort, a kiss of reassurance, a kiss of love.

"Do you know what you've done?" He whispered, hovering just above her lips, breathing in the fresh smell of soap that accompanied her smooth skin, nuzzling her nose, her cheek.

"I don't know." She confessed nervously, tightening her hold on him as if hoping that would give her clarity. "Do you think I can do it?" She pressed her face tight against his, feeling herself threaten to succumb to her ever present worry and fear in his arms.

"Yes," a note of reluctance sounded on his words as he held her ever close, "despite my biased reservations."

"Biased reservations?" Her voice was soft between them as she pulled ever so slightly back, enough to drown in his intense chocolate eyes.

"You think I want Fischer's hands all over my girl?" She couldn't stop the smile that grew across her face.

"Your girl doesn't like the idea any more than you." She reassured him with a light peck to his lips.

"It's more than that, Ariadne," he near pleaded, "hurtful words will be passed, careless actions committed, and you have to brush them off as nothing despite what you really feel. No one's forcing you into this. Our relationship is still young at best."

"What else would we do?" She returned, her brows creased in confused sadness. "Say goodbye just because you lost your job? I don't make enough to support us both, and somehow I can't see you clerking. Young though it may be…I know I don't want to lose you." She brushed her nose against his, her words dancing over his lips. "Being with you makes me feel like a simpering school girl most of the time, but I'm old enough to know you're worth holding onto. I want to prove to you that I'm worth holding onto." He pressed forward, sealing her lips to his, plundering her mouth, loving the fit of her body to his. A whining moan vibrated in the back of her throat as she pressed tighter against him, fighting a sudden well of tears.

"You have nothing to prove to me, Ariadne. But when we live through this, I promise you the rest of my life to make up for it." An overwhelming smile spread across her face, her heart leaping at such a promise.

"It's a deal, point man." She said, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "And to think, I was really just looking forward to a simple dinner with you tonight."

"I'm afraid you'll walk out of here with much more than that." He raised a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb caressing the skin he would soon have to defile.

"So teach me; tell me what I need to know." Guilt welled within him as he drank in her wide, honest eyes, so eager to learn, so scared at what the knowledge would bring.

"We'll do it after. You need time for the bruise to form." His voice caught on the end of his words, unable to believe what he was actually going to do.

"But why not before…?" Her brows creased worriedly, fear clouding her eyes.

"If we wait, you will be thinking about what's to come rather than listening to what you need to do. Your face will hurt for days, so also consider it a lesson in focusing your attention elsewhere and not on the throbbing pain in your face." A visibly nervous gulp worked its way down her throat as she worried her lip between her teeth, her eyes falling from Arthur's briefly before returning.

She trusted him, she loved him—plain and simple. This was his business, his world. If he knew what was best, she would follow. She forced a stiff nod of her head against his hand that still caressed her cheek, licking her lips in unsure determination.

"Ok, we'll talk after," her words came on a nervous breath, her eyes widening in anxious anticipation, "let's just…get it over with." He felt the contents of his stomach threaten to rise as he nodded slowly, leaning in for one more kiss, committing the feel of her unmarred skin to memory before pulling back.

"I'll do what I can to soften the blow, but it will hurt—I can't stop that." She nodded nervously, suddenly breathing heavy. "Close your eyes, love."

No sooner than her eyes clenched shut did he ball his fist and let it fly.


	6. The start

**Smaller chapter ahead, I'm afraid. Life has turned upside down unexpectedly, but writing is a nice escape from it so I don't plan to abandon this story. Thanks again for everyone's heartwarming reception of this story, and I hope you enjoy.  
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**To reviewers:  
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**angelgrl - Thanks for dropping a line. I'm glad to hear the last chapter was a complete surprise. Like Ariadne, drawn in, warm & safe with Arthur, only to be sharply reminded of what he's capable of and the desperate world of prohibition, so I hoped the reader would likewise be jarred . I hope you continue to hang around for the rest her journey.  
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**Knuckiducki - Thanks for your review. It is indeed time to put Ariadne's mettle to the test. All relationships have their trials, and this is theirs. I hope you stay tuned to see how it unfolds.  
**

**Chapter 6: The start **

Her mind was reeling, exhausted, as she sat with her face throbbing. Nothing had ever hurt like this before. It hurt to talk, to think, to blink, to breathe. She was glad the untouched side of her face faced the bright, bustling hallway. Mornings in hotels were always busy with the wait service carrying room service, the maids going about their duties, folks checking out.

The man, who seemingly had taken over Miles' job, was doing his best to offer a sympathetic look. He had yielded the elegant settee soon after she approached, asking shakily to see Gregory—Robert. His eyes kept darting to the door, impatiently awaiting the arrival of his boss or the lackey sent in his place.

She sniffled, her face aching with the movement. Arthur's fist had done its work. The swelling puffed up the skin around her left eye, extending to the bridge of her nose, leaving a nice blue and black coloring in its wake. Even she hadn't believed the damage when she looked in a mirror.

The door opened off to her left, catching her attention nervously as she glanced up. Her throat went instantly dry as she recognized the rugged face, the pale green eyes.

"You're…Arthur's girl?" Michael's voice was distantly confused, struggling to recall her name.

"Ariadne." She supplied softly, managing to find her voice.

"You don't look so good, kiddo." His Irish lilt was ever so soothing as he peered down at her. "Arthur's handiwork, no doubt." The words dripped with dangerous ice, making her shiver.

"Ariadne?" Robert's kind, shocked voice stole her attention as she looked over to see him freshly emerged from the Backroom's confines.

"Robert…is it? Or Gregory still?" She sniffled again on her words, pain flooding her face, making her wince.

"It is Robert—god, your face." He dropped to a knee, not caring that his expensive suit rested on the floor. "What kind of man would do this?" Gingerly his fingertips brushed along her jaw, his eyes full of concern.

"You know who it was," her voice was small, fighting back tears from the pain, "he…he was so angry. I tried to calm him down; I really did." She shook her head, seemingly at a loss, her mouth crinkling to a grimace.

"God, Ariadne." Robert moved forward, slipping his arms around her torso, holding her close. She clung to him in return, pressing her face into his chest, using the pain from her bruise to work up more free-flowing tears. "He won't touch you ever again. I promise you."

"I can take care of it much sooner than that." Michael's voice reached her ears, making her stiffen in Robert's arms. What would happen if Robert ordered Michael to go kill Arthur?

"No," Robert's voice was firm, seemingly stilling Michael into submission, "this doesn't need to get messier."

"I'm sorry to come to you," Ariadne hiccupped, her voice catching, "but I remember what you said that night…when you were bartending. That if things with Arthur and me didn't last…," she shook her head, looking to him with pleading, lost eyes, "and I didn't know if you meant…." She trailed off, waiting for his answer, meeting his icy eyes.

"I'm flattered you remember," something of a blush colored Robert's cheeks, a little smile cracking his worried face, "do not feel bad about coming to me, Ariadne. Please. I won't let anyone ever harm you again." A warm smile lit her sore face.

"You are too kind, Robert, really." His left hand rose to caress her uninjured cheek, drinking in her smile, relishing how she leaned into his touch.

"Michael, take care of things downstairs," Robert's hand fell away as he rose, fixing the taller man with a serious look, "you know what we discussed this morning. I'll be back in time for the opening tonight."

"We'll be ready." A rather shark-like smile flashed across Michael's face as he offered a quick, reassuring nod. "Feel better, Ariadne." Very little in his tone supported the notion as he nodded at her in farewell. She couldn't help but watch his lean form over Robert's shoulder as he descended into the shadows of the Backroom.

"Does…does he work for you?" She asked as Robert turned back to her, extending a hand.

"Yes; he is my point man." Her eyes widened in realization and memory as she rose, accepting his soft hand in hers. Had Michael been at the Backroom on business that one night she met him? Come to think of it, Gregory—Robert—had seemed rather more scolding and commanding with him than the average patron. Did Arthur know about this?

Robert's arm wrapped comfortingly around her back as he guided her back through the lobby, his youthful face etched with care and concern.

"Let's go get you taken care of." She did her best to match his reassuring smile, hoping she wasn't already in over her head.

xxx

Settling into Robert's life had been such a whirlwind. He took her into his suite at the Sydney Hotel uptown, offering all the comfort he could give. She hadn't been sure if his gentleness was all part of his cover as Gregory the bartender, but his care for her now spoke otherwise. Shortly afterwards, he introduced her to Brynn, and life hadn't stopped moving.

First it was the dressmakers, then the beauty parlor. Ariadne's eyes were wide over all the clothes and accessories Brynn acquired for her. They were so fine and delicate, so feminine. She almost couldn't stop smiling, despite the lingering pain in her face. The women at the beauty parlor had scoffed over the bruise but knew just how to cover up such a blemish until it healed, all while fussing over her hair and the other details of her cosmetics.

Every day the transformation amazed Ariadne. Just looking in the mirror at herself was beyond thrilling. For it had finally happened—her clothes fit pristinely, her hair fell in perfect coils, her face painted to perfection. She looked every bit as glamorous and sophisticated as the women in the Penrose lobby she'd spent months pining over.

And Robert was so appreciative. His gazes lingered on her womanly form, sparking with affectionate desire, but he remained ever the gentleman. He was determined to give her the time she needed to heal, to recover from her violent breakup with Arthur. Every time he caught her without makeup, his clear blue eyes focused on the bruise, vowing revenge on the man were they to meet again.

Secretly, it was exhilarating. Everything was so new, so refined, and each meal was more splendid than the last. Robert hadn't ever pushed her, letting her confidence return and grow naturally as they grew to know each other. There had been several moments over fine filets and scrumptious seafood that she'd caught Robert's candlelit eye, seen the loving warmth in those crystalline depths. It would only be all too easy to really fall for this man. But she knew what he had done, was capable of doing. She wouldn't let Arthur down. She couldn't.

It was all too easy as she sat, pushed gently into the velvet settee by Robert's warm body, lips tasting, exploring with equal fervor, to imagine Arthur above her. But she could only trick herself for so long. The smoky cologne filling her senses, and the dance of his smooth fingertips up her thigh were in direct contrast to the spice and calluses of her love. Not to say she didn't gasp and arch against his teasing touches—she was only human after all—but it was different.

And he was different. Unlike Arthur, he pulled his hands away, his body back, explaining his honorable intentions. He didn't want to rush into anything. He knew she deserved better than that. He was going to show her he was a better class of criminal.

"_If things with him don't last, I would love the opportunity to prove to you criminals can still be gentlemen."_

That had been Robert speaking in the guise of Gregory that night. He meant what he said, and he was going to prove it. It was honestly refreshing. She hadn't been able to stop the smile and flutter of her heart, hating herself for it only moments later. During the days, it was easy enough to pretend Robert was the only man in her world, but as she lay in her own bedroom, with Robert in his own room just across the suite, she longed for Arthur. To see him, to talk to him, to touch him, to be reminded he still wanted her.

He did still want her, yes? She'd been living as Robert's girl for three, almost four weeks, and she hadn't heard anything from any one of them. Not that she expected to. They were supposed to keep their distance, lest it be too suspicious. But had they forgotten about her?

She brought the cigarette back to her lips, careful not to smudge her lipstick. It was too close to pre-dinner drinks at the Backroom. The nicotine was wonderfully relaxing as she exhaled, thumping the spent ash into the coffee table ashtray. It was Michael's fault she started smoking.

"_Are you always so nervous before a first date?" Smoke streamed from his lips as he spoke. _

"_Nervous?" She countered, doing her best to hide her anxiousness. "Don't be silly; I'm looking forward to it." _

"_Oh yes," he teased, the cigarette poised between his lips, "you look perfectly composed for an evening of romance." _

"_You don't understand." She quickly shot back, instantly debating the wisdom of her words, hating the intrigued arch of his eyebrows. _

"_You've been living with the man for weeks," he simply pointed out, "you don't need to impress him." Annoyance flashed in her eyes. _

"_You think that is the only thing women worry about when dating a man?" She paused for a response, rewarded only with a mild shake of his head as his lips closed around the cigarette. "It's no wonder you don't have a girl, then." _

"_You're clearly the expert at relationships in the room." Her brow knit in offense, loosing a frustrated breath. _

"_When will Robert arrive?"_

"_Presently." Michael's voice was annoyingly unconcerned as she bristled further. "Here," he reached inside the jacket of his navy suit, producing a silver cigarette case. "You need this more than I do." _

"_I don't think so."_

"_Try it; you'll be surprised." He shifted his current cigarette deftly between his fingers, dangling the unlit one loosely between his lips. A match appeared just as swiftly in his hand as he lit the end, coaxing the tobacco to light. He wordlessly held out the smoldering cigarette, watching her eye it with a mix of weariness and interest. "Surely you're not afraid." _

"_No," she answered determinedly, stepping forward, "just unsure." Their fingers brushed as she accepted it, holding it clumsily between her fingers. Michael watched her intently, bringing his own cigarette to his lips, as if demonstrating the simple concept. _

_Slowly she brought the rolled tobacco to her lips, pursing her lips and drawing a shallow breath. Coughs wracked her chest and throat, a dizziness eating at her mind. Michael's soft chuckle reached her ears, and she couldn't help but glare back, annoyed. _

"_You'll learn to love it with time; I promise." _

She did have to say Robert's admittedly handsome point man was right—she had grown to enjoy their relaxing influence. And Robert had embraced her new habit, unable to deny the appeal in watching her lips purse around the slender cigarette

She turned on the soft tick of a door handle, unable to keep the smile from her face. Robert was so dashingly suave in his well-tailored tuxedo. He looked every bit the wealthy, successful man he was. Never mind how his success was achieved.

"You look absolutely stunning." He offered a genuine smile, his eyes raking over the silk maroon gown that flowed over her creamy skin. "You will make every man jealous tonight."

"Except you, of course." She returned with a playful smile, stubbing out her cigarette, moving around the sofa to join him.

"I don't know," he questioned absently, "can you be jealous of yourself?"

Her laughter reverberated off the Sydney's marble and mahogany lobby as they made their way out to the waiting silver Rolls Royce Wraith. She sunk back into the buttery leather, settling easily into her guise of Robert's girl. It was almost too easy to believe it was real. Almost.

She still preferred the Penrose's lobby to that of the Sydney. Why Robert didn't take up residence here was beyond her. Did he know about Arthur's suite? Or maybe it was too obvious for Robert to stay here. She didn't dare think about it too much more as they descended the plush carpeted stairs, entering into the familiar swanky confines of the Backroom.

Business looked steady with three-fourths of the tables already full, the music jazzy and sultry, drinks flowing. The smooth silk of her dress aided her as she slid into a circular, velvety booth with Robert close behind.

"Good evening," Michael's smooth, distantly accented voice sounded seemingly out of nowhere as he appeared at the table, dropping gracefully into the booth.

"Good evening, Michael." Her greeting sounded over Robert's, catching Michael's crisply pale eyes in the low light.

"May I say just how ravishing you look this evening, Ariadne." She felt her cheeks blush on the compliment, dropping his gaze for the tabletop.

"Enough, slick," Robert mock-scolded, drawing the taller man's gaze to him, "how's the evening been?"

"No trouble," Michael started confidently, all business, "call came in from New York. Browning is coming to visit."

"He's coming here?" If Robert was surprised at such news, he gave no indication.

"Yes he is. Advanced word is he's in an outright fit over the broken truce. He's coming out here to deliver a message to you personally."

"From Maurice, no doubt," Robert stated, his brow furrowing in displeasure, "no further details?"

"No; just the truce from—."

"Enough," Robert hissed sharply, his face hardening as Ariadne tucked the words away, trying not to appear too interested. "Let me know when he arrives in Chicago, where he's staying. But no more business for now, lest we bore poor Ariadne."

"My apologies," Michael offered up a warm, mesmerizing smile that traveled up to his eyes, "I'm still not used to Robert being accompanied by such pleasurable company." She covered up her embarrassment with a gentle giggle, bringing her thoughts back to the table, turning to Robert with a flirty smile.

"I don't think Robert's quite used to it yet either," she remarked playfully, "is it too much to ask that we might dance?" Robert's eyes filled with impressed surprise, sparking with that familiar warm affection—dare, she think love— that she'd seen so often.

"Shouldn't that be my line?" He asked, his voice suave, sure.

"I can't help it if Michael bores me with work talk, and I have to take matters into my own hands." A light laugh sounded around the table as Robert rose, extending his hand to her. She airily stood, her hand slipping into his, falling into his arms as they reached the dance floor.

The song was slow and alluring with a rhythm made for lovers. She kept her smile in place, letting her eyes meet his they moved together, hoping she concealed her mind at work.

"I'm sorry again for Michael," Robert started softly, "he should know better than to discuss work details in front of you."

"I don't mind, Robert," she smiled into his hypnotic eyes, "he works for you, we're at your place—it only makes sense—besides, you did ask him about the evening."

"Nevertheless." He pulled her in closer, her senses overwhelmed with the smell and feel of him just in time for the song to end. His hands dropped from her waist, a polite round of applause rising from the dance floor.

Silently they threaded back through the tables, his hand cool through the silk of her dress on her lower back. She wasn't surprised to see drinks waiting for them in the booth as Michael stood guard, sipping from a highball of his own.

"Thank you for the drink." Ariadne shot Michael an appreciative look on her words, reaching for her glass. The liquid burned its way down her throat, a pungent moss flavor lingering in the aftermath. She wrinkled her nose, staring at the glass almost confusedly.

"Don't like it?" Michael sounded almost offended. "It's the closest the Backroom has had to scotch since prohibition started."

"Then I'd have to say scotch isn't to my liking." Robert's lips curled to a proud smile, taking a drink, studying his glass.

"Not too shabby." He nodded his head, taking another sip, snaking a hand around Ariadne's to cradle her glass. "If you don't like it, I'm sure I can find something you will."

"Thank you, Robert," her eyes met his in the low light as she turned to face him, "I would like that."

"Very well," he placed a quick kiss to her cheek, prying the glass from her fingertips, "I won't be long." He moved from her side, nodding at Michael in silent communication as he moved for the bar. She didn't have to look to feel Michael's gaze on her. She let her eyes settle to his, offering a pleasant smile.

"Is it too much to ask you for a dance, Ariadne?" Her name rolled in a low purr off his accented tongue.

"I don't think so." She offered back wearily, watching him set the highball to the tabletop. He stepped forward in true gentlemanly fashion, holding out his arm for her. She glanced back to the bar ever so quickly, noting Robert in serious conversation with the bartender before looping her arm through his.

She let him lead her to the dance floor, settling easily into his leading movements, contrasting warmth from his hand seeping through the silk of her dress.

"I'm glad you like me more than you did that first night." She furrowed her brow on his words, searching her memory.

"That first night?" She repeated, realization dawning. "Back when Robert said his name was Gregory?"

"Yes, that night," he answered with a light laugh, "you're weary of me still, but you like me better."

"You're sure I like you now?" She eyed him with a suspicious smile, her brow raised. His mischievous smirk was utterly disarming, a low tendril of desire curling unbidden in her belly.

"You've warmed to me. I can tell." His voice dropped to a rough, husky tone. "Even if you won't admit it." She shook her head, her smile widening to hide her growing response to his flattery.

"You're so arrogant." She mock chastised, his eyes holding her interest.

"Between Arthur and Robert, haven't you had your fill of arrogance?"

"And what…?" She questioned absently. "You're not much better yourself, you know."

"I didn't claim to be." He simply answered, silence descending as they continued to move together. She felt his hand slowly sliding down her back, his calloused fingertips teasing the silk of her dress, slowly drawing hr in closer. Her lips parted in a light sigh as her front brushed against his fine suit, fighting the heat warming her body. She fought for something, anything , to distract her. Her eyes landed on their intertwined hands, suddenly remembering.

"May I ask—knowing what I know now—why Arthur cut your hand?" She thought back to the scar, long and pale, neatly dividing his left hand in half.

"You believed me when I told you it was Arthur?" She stared back at him, dumbfounded.

"I didn't know you—didn't have a reason to think you would lie." She quickly stammered watching a wicked, knowing spark flash in his eyes.

"I didn't say I lied." His voice dropped to a silky, dangerous tone, watching color rise to her cheeks. He had to know exactly what he was doing and she hated that she let him affect her so. Pleasant warmth coursed through her as he continued to hold her close, neither moving to replace the space between them.

"You are aware Robert can see us." She managed at last.

"Probably." He answered unconcernedly. "But he doesn't trust me with you. So it won't surprise him."

"But what about me?" Her brow furrowed in surprised worry, almost wondering if he was actually trying to get her into trouble.

"You're only human." His words echoed on the final notes of the song, the hand on her back slackening to allow her to step back. Applause lifted from the dancers as people drifted back to their tables. Wordlessly she accepted Michael's arm back to the booth, not surprised to find Robert already waiting with a new drink for her, trying not to think about Michael's words.

"That was kind of you to dance with him," Robert's eyes met Ariadne's, "I'm sure it's been a while since any woman willingly danced with Michael here." A look of surprised curiosity flashed briefly across her face, before she covered it with a polite smile.

"Michael's a fine dancer. I shouldn't see why he would have any trouble finding partners."

"Oh, that's never a problem." Michael added with a sly smile, reaching for his highball. "You two enjoy the night." He tipped his glass to the couple with one last glance before turning to weave through the tables and shadows, leaning his svelte from against the bar.

Ariadne looked down to her glass, releasing a sigh. These men were dizzying, their world addicting. She raised her glass to her lips, taking a big drink. Her gaze settled back to Robert's, watching him watch her, and she couldn't help the pang of disappointment that shot through her. She turned from him quickly to glance back to the bar, almost longingly, hating herself for wanting the point man's company over Robert's right now.

She took another pull of the liquid, loving how much smoother it was going down than the scotch.

"I don't mean to rush," Robert started softly, politely, "but we should be on our way for dinner."

"Sounds splendid." She nodded enthusiastically, taking one last sip of her drink, one last resolve.

She needed to focus. This job was about Robert. Not Robert's dreadfully handsome, distracting point man. She took Robert's arm, the sounds of the Backroom fading away, yielding to the proper Penrose lobby, steeling her mind against the nagging doubt in the back of her mind.

Could she _really _do this?


	7. The sketch

**I apologize for the long delay. Life is just now starting to resume normal programming, but with the upcoming holidays, posting may still be sketchy, but as promised, there is still more to come!**

**To my Guest reviewers—your reviews were heartwarming to receive. Thanks for the words of encouragement. It's been a stressful last month-ish, and I'm enjoying getting back into this world and continuing this story. I hope you're able to enjoy! **

**Thanks everyone! **

**Chapter 7: The sketch **

The theater was taking shape, slowly, carefully. Fortunately, the elegant Circle Theater was in plain view from the suite's windows, and Ariadne had been drawing heavy inspiration from it. But she was giving her theater a completely different feel. The structure was all iron and steel, but the façade was wood from exotic African trees.

Theaters were places to escape from the everyday world, into a far off, sometimes exotic, sometimes fantasy world. Her theater would reflect that, welcoming patrons to the far-away continent of Africa with their first steps into the lobby. She wanted to extend that sense of fantasy escape to all aspects of the theater.

She smiled down at the page, particularly proud of ceiling cross beams that could be decoratively concealed as ceremonial spears. Her knowledge of Africa was limited to a book she read in the library back home, but the images described in words had stuck with her. 'The Mombasa.' That's what she would call her theater. Her smile widened as she continued sketching, dreaming.

"What are you drawing?" Robert's soft voice drawled from behind her as firm hands gently came to rest on her shoulders.

"Oh, I…it's nothing, really." Her cheeks flushed, craning her neck to see him, laying her hand out over her sketch.

"I doubt that," Robert said supportively, smiling down at her, "may I please see?" She bit her lip nervously, pulling her hand down, smiling down at the sketch of her theater.

"It's a theater—'The Mombasa,'" she started, feeling her cheeks flame further, "designed to let the patron know they are entering a world of fantasy and travel. The supporting structure is set for easy overlay of decorative African woods to create the warm, authentic feel. The lobby's interior pillars and beams can be disguised as spears, or wrapped as tree trunks with foliage on the ceiling, or even vines clinging to the cross beams." She realized she was rambling, losing herself in her idea.

"That's a brilliant idea, Ariadne," Robert's voice held a strong note of pride and surprise, "I would never have guessed you harbored an interest in architecture."

"It's something I should love to study," Ariadne admitted wistfully, sighing in defeat, "the woman in admissions at the University of Chicago all but laughed me out of the building when I tried to inquire." Robert's brow furrowed to a glare as he looked down at her.

"That's surprising. Women have had the vote for over ten years now. One would think universities would stop begrudging them study opportunities." Ariadne shook her head in annoyance, loosely shrugging a shoulder.

"I don't know why she turned me away." Her eyes fell back to her theater, unable to stop smiling down at it. "But I won't let that stop me from drawing."

"As well it shouldn't," Robert stooped to place a kiss on her cheek, "tell you what, why don't we stop by the admissions office this afternoon? I'm sure we can work something out for you, if you really want to take a class." She turned to him with wide excited eyes, not believing his words.

"Do you mean it?" Her smile grew around her words, trying not to get her hopes up. "Can we—will we really stop by?" He laughed lightly, amused and touched by her obvious excitement.

"Of course," he reassured her, his icy eyes promising, "after your lunch and my meeting, we'll be on our way."

"Oh thank you, Robert!" She couldn't help the near squeal of excitement on her voice, the anxiousness swelling in her chest. This was too good to be true. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, feeling him respond ever so gently.

"But for now, you better be on your way," his words danced on her lips, "it's not polite to keep company waiting."

"Oh no, Robert," Ariadne turned towards her sketch book, closing it, "you know I have better manners than that." He pulled back, allowing her stand, drinking in her simple navy dress with cream trim.

"Michael's downstairs waiting with the car." She fixed him with a questioning look, inwardly confused.

"Michael? Is he coming with me?" She certainly hoped not. How could she tell Jillian anything if Michael was hovering within earshot?

"Of course he is," Robert nonchalantly answered, brushing a hand protectively along her arm, "I can't risk something happening to you."

"Nothing will happen. Robert, please, I haven't seen Jillian in so long. It won't be a girls' lunch if Michael joins us."

"I'm sorry, Ariadne, but I won't hear it. Surely you can understand why I feel the need to protect you."

"Arthur won't try anything more," she didn't see the need to play coy, "he…he doesn't care about me anymore. He's probably forgotten all about me and Jillian. How could he possibly know that we're having lunch together?"

"He's a point man," Robert swiftly answered, "knowing plans, movements and details are his business." He sighed in mild annoyance, trying to make her see reason. "He already hit you once Ariadne," Robert tried again, "if he knows you're with me, there's no limit to what his anger could bring you if you're alone in the open."

"Don't you think Michael has better things to do than babysit me?"

"He's my point man. He'll do whatever I tell him." Robert answered back unconcerned, placing a kiss on her forehead. "I don't want to see you hurt because I fail to adequately divide my attention. Please, indulge me." She sighed, her mind instantly racing how to make this lunch work.

"Very well." She acquiesced, a smile coming to her face as she met his crystalline eyes. "Don't think I don't appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, Robert. It's just…I'm not used to sharing my alone time with friends."

"I know, my love. I really do appreciate your understanding for my peace of mind." A satisfied smile warmed his face. "And once you return, we'll be off to the University of Chicago together."

She scooted off to her room, unable to keep the smile from her face, his words ringing in her ears as she pinned her cream hat atop of her pristine curls. It would be such a dream come true if Robert was actually able to get her enrolled. One of the first women architects.

Her smile was impossibly wide as she drifted down the elevator, making her way through the luxurious lobby. She could see the bright noon sun reflecting off the silver Rolls Royce Wraith, humming powerfully as it idled at the curb. She offered the doorman a smile of thanks as he opened the door, admitting her into the brisk breeze.

Michael stood straight and elegant next to the backseat door, contrasting sharply against the car in his crisp black suit. A fedora sat low on his head, shrouding his face in shadows but she could tell his eyes were on her. He took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the curb, twin trails of smoke blowing from his nose as he reached for the door handle.

"Thought he didn't trust you with me." She teased casually over her shoulder as she slid into the backseat.

"This is different." His brogue was always easy on the ears. The door shut with a gentle slam as she checked her hat, smoothing out her dress. She watched the other door open, Michael's lean form joining her on the seat with a catlike grace.

"Café au Lait, please." His words to the driver were so pleasant, as though he was actually looking forward to lunch himself.

"So how is this different?" She asked, fixing him with a questioning look from under her cream hat.

"This is my job." He simply answered, glancing out the window.

"Escorting me to lunch with my friend?"

"Protecting Robert's interests." She turned to glance out her own window, not sure how to argue against that answer.

"So I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to just drop me off?" He turned to fix her with an incredulous eye.

"And risk trouble with my boss, your boyfriend? Not likely." She sighed in defeat as she worried her lip nervously.

"Do you have to sit at the table with us?" It was unnerving not being able to get a clear look at his pale eyes from under his hat.

"Is there some reason in particular you don't wish me present at your lunch today?" His voice was deeply suspicious, intent on finding out the truthful answer. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, instantly afraid she'd pushed too far. She forced a hard swallow, fighting to keep her exterior from giving anything away.

"Nothing sinister, if that's what you're suggesting." She forced a controlled note of calm to her voice, a smile following. "Jillian and I have been friends for fifteen years, and lived together for three before I took up residence with Robert. We have shared so much, and I simply haven't seen her in so long. Of course, we're going to talk about Robert—my boyfriend, your boss—and I just don't want you overhearing our talk." A slow, predatory smirk curled his lips as his eyes sought hers, still searching.

"Maybe that's exactly why he sent me along," Michael ventured, "maybe he wants to know how he's measuring up." She frowned at the insinuation on his words.

"Has it ever occurred to you that as your boss' girlfriend, you might not want to press your luck?" She asked innocently. "I'm sure if I told Robert how you spoiled my lunch, you wouldn't be so happy." His jaw tightened ever so imperceptibly as he shook his head.

"You're not like us," he said softly, a rare pensive warmth coloring his words, "you don't play the game to get yourself ahead or put others down. So talk a big game all you want, but I know you better than that, Ariadne." She stilled, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze, as though he knew everything about her purpose for being with Robert. Now she really wanted a clear look at his eyes to see if there was any hint of a joke lurking in their crisp depths. "Rest easy," he said turning from her as the car glided to a graceful stop, "I have no intention of boring myself by listening to your so-called talk. You'll have Jillian to yourself."

He stepped out of the car, and she released the breath she didn't realize she was holding. Maybe he didn't know anything. How could he possibly? But he was the point man—it was his job to know. She quickly shook from her thoughts as her door opened, offering up a small smile as she took his hand, stepping out into the bright sun.

The café was a cute little place, the patio lined in a white picket fence covered in lazy vines with bright umbrellas over wrought iron tables. It called to mind the drawings of Paris cafes she had been in books—and oh, how she would love to visit Paris.

"If anything raises my suspicion, we are leaving immediately. No check, no goodbyes—understood?" His voice was all dangerous business, his eyes already surveying for anything out of place.

"Yes; thank you for your diligence, Michael," she met his eyes with an appreciative smile, "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful in the car."

"Enjoy your lunch." He motioned towards Jillian, who stood stock still, her mouth agape in a pleasantly surprised expression. Ariadne took a step towards her, a big smile lighting her face to finally see her old friend.

"Wow, just look at you…" Jillian started softly, shaking her head in envy, "you look so perfect, like a movie star." An embarrassed flush came to Ariadne's cheeks. "But you don't look like yourself."

"You can thank Brynn and Robert for that," Ariadne said with a dismissive shake of her head, as if unable to fully believe it, "he's been so gracious and generous, Jilly. He…he doesn't want anything to remind me of Arthur."

They moved for the front door, addressing the hostess and found themselves promptly seated at a table in the ivy trellised patio.

"Surely that wasn't Robert just now…was it?" Jillian asked opening her menu as the waiter walked away.

"Oh no," Ariadne dismissed with a slight wrinkle of her mouth, "that's Robert's point man, Michael. He does Arthur's job at the Backroom now."

"Well I hope Robert's at least half as handsome," Jillian looked around Ariadne's shoulder at the point man as he sat in a patio chair across the way, steaming cup of coffee on the table, seemingly perusing the day's newspaper. "So how are you? It's been so long."

"God, Jilly, it is so wonderful to see you." A relieved sort of smile came to Ariadne's face, feeling herself relax into the chair more than she had in weeks.

"How are things with Robert?" Jillian's eyes were concernedly pleading.

"Its…he's…," Ariadne sighed with a light shake of her head, debating her answer, "he's taking me to the University of Chicago this afternoon to see about architecture classes. That's how things are." Jillian's eyes lit up, wide and excited.

"How wonderful! That's what you always wanted!" Worry crept into Jillian's voice. "But what about Arthur?"

"I miss him so," Ariadne didn't even have to hesitate, "being with Robert isn't the same as being with him."

"I'll say," Jillian agreed, "just look how dolled up you are." The waiter returned, quickly taking orders as the girls made fast decisions. "Well, he sends his warmest thoughts and deepest love." Jillian didn't miss the confused quirk of Ariadne's brow. "Those are my words, not his; but the idea's the same." Ariadne laughed softly, a genuine smile on her face. She always smiled when she thought of Arthur.

"I told him once that all this romantic stuff didn't seem like his style," the warm affection on Ariadne's voice was overwhelming, "and he agreed, but he said it was just what I looking for, so he would do whatever it took to prove himself." Jillian shook her head, disgusted and jealous.

"You clearly came out ahead that night we went to the Backroom. If you ever let him go, I'm moving in." Ariadne laughed softly.

"I hope that never happens. Sorry, Jilly." There was no remorse in Ariadne's smile. "Do you even see Eames anymore?"

"Pfft," Jillian rolled her eyes, annoyed, "no, he's not my contact. They have some man—from India. He's involved with pharmaceuticals and miracle medicines...I think."

"Pharmaceuticals?" Ariadne hadn't ever heard of pharmaceutical talk before. "Is that how Dom and Arthur are staying employed these days?"

"They don't give me details," Jillian quickly answered, sipping her water, "but Yusuf is pleasant enough. He comes by the diner to check up on me and pass along any messages. It's sweet, really." Ariadne had to nod in agreement.

"It is surprising how much they do seem to care, considering they're criminals."

"Our own band of gentleman outlaws." Ariadne matched Jillian's laugh as their eyes met. This was so much fun. She would have to make a point to do this more regularly, even if Michael was just sitting at the opposite end of the patio.

Savory food soon arrived, each of them tucking in, trading bites.

"Mmm, this is divine," Jillian drawled, raising her napkin to her lips, "and to think, you eat like this every day now. Next time they need an undercover volunteer, let me know."

"Trust me," Ariadne reassured, "I won't ever sign up for something like this again. It's so nerve-wracking." A shiver raced down her spine to remember the conversation with Michael in the Rolls. "You never know if they really know your secret."

"I imagine that would be tough."

"And you have to be careful asking questions. Ask too many and they'll get wise. Don't ask enough, and they'll question your general intelligence." Ariadne sighed, taking another bite. "I haven't even been exposed to so much as a crack in Robert's operation. Most of his meetings are conducted at the Backroom, though. He and his men sit huddled together in one of the circular corner booths, talking in hushed tones. If I'm there, they leave me at the bar, but I'm not without the watchful eyes of the bartender."

"Any names?" Jillian asked, her voice soft and discrete to match Ariadne's.

"Sadly, no. Michael Flynn is the only one Robert's ever seen fit to introduce me to. The bartender's name is Charles, but he doesn't seem to be involved with anything more than just pouring drinks." Her eyes lit with remembrance. "Browning is coming to town. Soon, I think. Michael didn't actually say when, come to think of it."

"He's the uncle? Or something like that, right?" Jillian confirmed, trying to remember. Yusuf had quickly rattled off names she should always make a point to remember, and for some reason, this seemed like one them.

"Yes, or the second in command. Or something similar. Michael mentioned something about breaking a truce, and Robert quickly jumped on him for it."

"A truce?" Jillian asked around her fork. "Yusuf has never talked about a truce. Truce with who?"

"I don't know," Ariadne shook her head, equally as confused, "as I said, Robert wasn't too pleased Michael had brought it up."

"Well I'll tell Yusuf, and see if he knows anything about it." Jillian's gaze lingered on Ariadne, envious of her still perfect lipstick, the tight coils of her hair, the tilt of the cream hat that brought out the attractive angles of her face. "Well you look fantastic—even beneath the pristine exterior. Maybe something about this clandestine, deceptive lifestyle agrees with you."

"I'm sure Reverend Holloway would agree." Jillian tried to snuff a loud laugh with her napkin, failing as Ariadne joined her.

"Oh, that crotchety old man thought all children were the devil," Jillian's eyes darted over Ariadne's shoulder curiously, "your bodyguard is looking mildly annoyed."

"Is he?" Ariadne turned to look over her shoulder, noting the curiously displeased scowl distorting Michael's face. She did her best to offer a placating smile before turning back to Jillian. "Oh, let him be annoyed."

"He sure is attentive." Jillian commented, almost unnerved by him continuing to stare.

"That's why he's the man on point. Attention to detail is his job." She smiled up at the waiter, offering apolite thanks as he cleared their plates, informing them the check had already been taken care of.

"Your man over there?" Jillian asked, no doubt in her voice.

"I'm sure he was acting under Robert's orders. He is not so generous himself." Jillian laughed softly.

"Nor patient. He's headed this way," Jillian turned back to Ariadne, near rushed, worried panic in her eyes, "oh, be careful Ariadne. You can't let them on to you. Everyone wants you to come out of this unharmed."

"Thanks Jillian," a worried smile flashed across Ariadne's face, steeling herself, "I hope everything's alright in the end."

"Well Ariadne, this has been the best lunch. It's so fantastic to see you!" Jillian raised her voice, her smile returning tenfold as Michael approached.

"You as well, Jillian. Truly, we need to do this more regularly."

"My apologies, ladies," Michael's sharp words sounded overhead, drawing both their attentions, "but I'm afraid we must be on our way, Ariadne."

"Very well," she nodded with a light sigh, rising from her chair as did Jillian, "Jilly, I'll call you soon. I promise."

"You better." Jillian met Ariadne in a shared hug. "Bye, for now."

"Bye, Jillian." Ariadne hated watching her friend walk away. It had been such a release to just talk to her, knowing she could be herself and lower her guard. Even with Michael in range, it was still wonderful.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" He asked rather disinterestedly as they weaved through the tables towards the patio exit.

"Immensely." Her smile grew on the word, watching the silver Wraith stop at the curb. "Remind me to thank Robert for telling you to pick up the check." Michael fixed her with a mischievous, yet innocent little smile as held her door open.

"Picking up the check wasn't Robert's idea."

xxx

These men meant business. Their collected, casual confidence resonated in their every move as they escorted Arthur and Dom up to the private waiting lobby. There wasn't a flash of a gun barrel to be seen in the posh office environment, but Arthur knew every man was sufficiently armed and knew how to handle himself. And why shouldn't they? Mr. Saito only surrounded himself with the best.

Arthur knew what his job was. This was Dom's show, his element—pitching, interfacing, networking. Arthur had the eye for details and strategies, but Dom had the personal flair for doing business. Arthur was simply backup if things went wrong, or their deal was rejected. Both of them knew that Arthur was the deadlier of the two with a pistol. He could only hope Saito's men wouldn't have to find that out.

The tall mahogany doors opened, admitting a small, rather mousy man with tiny spectacles over his pointed nose.

"He will see you now, if you'll follow me, please." Arthur fell into step behind Dom, footfalls echoing in the marbled, cavernous room. One of their earlier escorts stepped between Dom and the mousy man, his face stern and controlled.

"Surrender what you're carrying, or I'll be forced to take it from you."

"I'm not carrying." Dom smoothly answered, undoing the button of his suit jacket and pulling it out to show the lack of shoulder holster or gun at his waist. The man's eyes fell to Arthur wearily.

"And you?" Arthur reached for the right side of his jacket, pulling it out to reveal the holster that wrapped around his shoulders. Slowly, carefully he reached for the gun, turning the barrel on himself to produce the handle to Saito's guard. It was all about the slow, controlled movements, reassuring anyone with an itchy trigger finger that he was not a threat.

"Just the one?" The guard confirmed as he hefted the gun, to which Arthur offered a succinct nod.

"Just the one." Arthur smoothly answered.

"Very well gentlemen, Mr. Saito is waiting." The mousy man piped up, voice terse as he turned to walk through the open mahogany doors with Dom and Arthur following. The office was just as opulent and sterile as expected. Purely a place for business, designed to impress the rivals and boast the level of success. Mr. Saito himself sat comfortably ensconced in a cushy leather chair behind an expansive desk, an expectant, even amused smile across his face, reflecting in his serious eyes.

"Mr. Cobb, what a pleasure to see you again." The door closed softly on Saito's words, leaving the three men alone.

"You as well, Mr. Saito. Thank you for your time." Dom tipped his head in an appreciative gesture, coming to a stop in front of the desk, Arthur just behind him.

"I don't know whether or not I should be offended you felt the need to bring Mr. St Clair." Saito waved a hand loosely in Arthur's direction, his face wary and scrutinizing.

"No offense intended. You know perfectly well Arthur is my good friend, second in command and business associate. We're not here to start trouble."

"Then why are you here?" Saito's voice lost all semblance of friendliness as he fixed Dom with a hard stare.

"To work out a deal." Dom held Saito's gaze easily, confidently, not fazed as a smile broke out across the other man's face, a laugh following.

"'To work out a deal?' Did I not offer you a deal three years ago, only to have you absolutely refuse, as I'm sure Mr. St Clair remembers?"

"To this day, I would still not accept your original offer, but I think you'll find this one much more appealing." Saito sat quietly, his gaze unyielding. "The Fischers have taken over the Backroom and effectively worked it into their empire. Now, assuming what you told me three years ago was actually true, then Fischer has broken the agreement and placed you very much at risk."

"Maurice has done this?" A dubious note rang on Saito's voice, his face unconcerned.

"No. This is the son, Robert." Saito nodded ever so imperceptibly, as though Dom's words confirmed his worst fears.

"That's not really surprising, Mr. Cobb," Saito started, resting his elbows on the armrests and leaning further back into the leather, "tensions have been high between the elder and younger Fischer for some time now. And with Maurice's rapidly declining health, Robert's power grows accordingly. It's no secret Robert intends to grow his father's empire, but the question has always remained if he would break the truce."

"His move on the Backroom is a clear indication of his intentions," Dom explained, his voice level, "if you mean to keep a few independent operators in your pocket to bolster your business and prevent a Fischer monopoly, along with an all out price war—you have to help us take control of the Backroom." Saito's brow rose ever so slightly in surprise as he looked up at Dom's ever serious face.

"That's some confidence you have."

"You knew of my reputation three years ago when you sought me out, and if anyone's besmirched my good name since then, I would very much like to know who." A smile cracked the hard lines of Saito's face, his eyes knowing.

"Rest assured, you have continued to live up to your reputation, Mr. Cobb. I'm merely trying to understand what you want for me, and how it benefits me exactly."

"Funding," Dom simply said with a slow shake of his head, "monetary involvement only. We have enough personnel to see this through."

"And if I provide said monetary funding, should I not send along a tourist to see the job is done properly?"

"There's no room for tourists on this job, Mr. Saito," Arthur broke in, his voice respectful, unyielding, "we have our people in place, some already in Robert's inner circle. Any more, particularly ones that can be traced back to you would be ill-advised."

"Well without a tourist to ensure my investment is secure, I require a large return and some form of security." Arthur watched Dom force a hard swallow, forming the words to a deal he would have balked at a few months ago.

"When the Backroom is ours again, twenty-five percent is yours, no questions asked." Dom reached inside his suit jacket, producing an envelope with a red wax seal, emblazoned with an ornate 'C.' "The only security I can offer is names of our suppliers and the drop-off locations." An almost haggard sigh left the man as he held the envelope out. "You know as well as I, in this business—it's all about your suppliers who can stay ahead of the law."

Saito stared at the envelope, almost unable to believe the proud, the sure, the confident Dominic Cobb was standing before him, offering him such information. Three years ago the man had all but thrown Saito out when he made a very similar offer for forty percent of the Backroom, and sure protection from a takeover by any other racket in town. Oh how things had changed.

"Forty-five percent of the Backroom, non-negotiable," Saito's voice held a note of finality, "in return you'll receive all the benefits previously discussed three years prior, and unlimited funding to see the Backroom restored to its former glory in the wake of Fischer's demise." He raised a hand in a beckoning gesture as Dom stepped forward to surrender the envelope containing their livelihood.

Arthur forced a hard swallow knowing that if Saito were to just open the envelope he could wipe out their liquor supply in one fell swoop, rendering any plan to regain the Backroom useless.

Almost nervously, both men watched as Saito rose from his chair, crossing the room to an inconspicuous portrait, pulling it from the wall on a set on hidden hinges. The businessman made sure to block both sets of prying eyes from the dial of his safe as he entered in the combination, the metallic clink of the lock sounding in the silence. With a quick flash, Saito waved the envelope into view before placing it in the depths of the safe, swiftly closing it.

"Consider your security well protected, gentlemen," Saito forced a reassuring note to his voice as he spun the lock to secure the door in place, "in the event you fail me, this list of distributors will find themselves with restricted clientele or risking jail sentences. I would rather see the Backroom out of the business than another piece of the Fischer Empire." He turned back to Arthur and Dom, a serious threat lurking in the lines of his face. "Either help Robert Fischer to change his mind for the betterment of our world, or I will effectively put you both out of business. Are we understood?"


	8. The kink

**To anyone left still reading this, I know I keep apologizing for delays, and while there are always excuses, life is what it is—so I apologize and will keep working to bring this story to completion even if I manage to kill off all interest in it in the process. Hope everyone had a Happy New Year's celebration!**

**To my lovely Guest Reviewer – Thank you for your kind words. Reviews are always encouraging, and I'm thrilled to hear you're still interested in this story. Each chapter nears the end of the story, so keep a weather eye open to see if Arthur & Ariadne survive this trial by fire. Writing is my favorite creative outlet, and I appreciate your note of thanks. To which I say in return, thank you for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy the story. **

**Onwards!  
**

**Chapter 8: The kink **

The steady supply of steam had long turned the marble bathroom into a veritable sauna. And to Ariadne, it was heaven. Winters in the apartment with Jillian had always been miserably cold. But this pleasant, all encompassing heat was pure bliss. She never knew the simple task of bathing could turn into such a luxury.

She switched off the gold-plated taps and reached for the soft, fluffy towel. Everything about Robert's suite was first class. Sure, Arthur's Penrose suite had been swanky, but the Sydney boasted an element of opulence that she had never known existed. The fur rug was warm and plush beneath her feet as she padded over to the counter, breathing deep the soothing humid air.

Tonight they were having dinner with the famous Peter Browning. Robert had described him as his uncle, but she got hints from Michael that he was actually Maurice's business partner. But maybe Browning was both? Not that it really mattered. Ariadne's only concern was dressing and acting the part. It was easy to pretend, but she still wasn't at home in five-star restaurants, and tonight they were attending the most famous in town. Chez Paris. She ran the pearl handled comb through her damp curls, confident she could recreate the loose, curly upsweep Bryn had taught her.

She could only guess Robert's preference in her dress tonight. Her wardrobe consisted of a wide array of tasteful and elegant gowns these days, and Robert always seemed to know just how he wanted to her look. And for her part, she was happy to oblige.

The silk of her dressing gown was decadently pleasurable sliding against her bare skin as she wrapped it about her naked frame and opened the door to her boudoir. Last she knew, Robert was due to arrive at the suite and prepare for dinner. She didn't mind him seeing her in just her dressing gown. In fact, it was almost entertaining to watch the blush that crept to his cheeks, the way he'd stammer his words, trying to remain a gentleman by not looking.

"Robert?" But as she pushed open her boudoir door, and slipped around the corner with the playful smile of a vixen, she froze at the sight before her.

For it was not the stiffly modest form of Robert Fischer that greeted her, but the lean, predatory form of Michael Flynn. He lounged idly on one of the sitting room couches, the serious lines of his rugged face softened by the golden glow of the room's lightening. A highball rested in his left hand on the knee of his crisp black tux, his hair perfectly coiffed to the side. She forced a hard swallow at the sight of him, the look on his face sparking a wave of desire low in her stomach.

"Well," he started, his voice a velvety drawl, "this is a pleasant surprise."

"Robert said he'd be here…." She offered by way of lame excuse, trying to draw herself out of his eyes and fight the growing heat in her body. Never before had the gaze of a man appealed so strongly to her baser instinct as a woman—it was downright unnerving. And here she was—with only a thin sheet of silk separating her body from his eyes. But judging by the slight quirk of his lips, it wasn't taking much for him to imagine her sans dressing gown.

"Yes, well," Michael's voice was infuriatingly level as his eyes continued to drink her in, "he asked me to inform you that he's meeting Mr. Browning at the Chesterfield before dinner. His tux is being delivered, and I am to escort you to dinner where he will meet us." She fought for another swallow, her senses heightening to realize they were alone in the suite. A dangerous thing to be sure, especially as she felt a surprisingly anxious pulse grow between her legs the more he studied her.

"Oh, that's too bad," she tried to force a note of disappointment to her voice, "he left without telling me his preference for my dress this evening." A slow, almost wicked smile crossed Michael's face, making her breath almost hitch. How was one man able to so effortlessly undress her with his eyes and strip away her confidence?

"I would be more than willing to lend a critical eye," he offered, his voice a low purr, "you have a number of rather flattering evening gowns to choose from." Her cheeks burned red as she fought back a wide smile, hoping he would guess it was all from embarrassment. She crossed her arms about her midsection, whether to hide herself from him or offer a sassy response, she wasn't sure. His eyes settled to her more prominently defined chest, zeroing in on the two highly visible pert nubs through the silk fabric. Did she know how hard she was making this for him?

"I last wore my maroon dress with the black fringe, if you know that one." She started, her eyes breaking from his, desperate to form a coherent thought.

"I like your emerald gown the best," he said, raising his highball for a sip, "you don't wear it often enough." She bit her lip to reign in her smile, her head dropping to stare at the carpet.

"Robert doesn't like it so much," she admitted, raising her eyes back to his, "but I would have to say it's one of my favorites." A sly half-smile curled about his handsome face as he dropped his eyes to watch the swirl of liquid in his highball.

"That makes the vote two against one," he raised the glass, poising it at his lips, "go get dressed, Ariadne."

She turned without another word, swearing she could feel his heated gaze on her backside. Daringly, unable to stop, she cast a glance over her shoulder, landing on his smoldering, appreciative gaze. She turned back to face the interior of her boudoir, closing the door behind her and leaning against it with a sigh.

What was it about that man tonight? Yes, he was handsome; yes, he was attractive; yes, those smoldering looks were so tempting. But it felt different. With Arthur, she wanted everything about him—his laugh, his smile, his body, his words, his love, his heart. With Michael—she couldn't even really say she liked the man, he always managed set her on edge—but damn, if she didn't want him to bed her right now.

An embarrassed soft giggle left her, her cheeks burning redder at the risqué, vulgar thought. First drinking, now smoking and swearing…the vices these men were introducing her to were something else. But as she pushed off the door and moved for her closet, she couldn't deny how liberating and exciting it all was.

However, she couldn't be more grateful that her mother would live out the rest of her days never knowing just how close her daughter was to becoming a smoking, boozing floozy.

The fluttering heat of arousal stuck with her as she dressed, fixed her hair, applied makeup. She knew she shouldn't be so excited—or care quite so much—about the man awaiting her on the other side of the door. But as she applied her mascara with a little more finesse, and worked the pins in her hair with a little more care for their arrangement, she was actually excited to look her best tonight. Though equally as disconcerting was wondering how—or even if—she could stop him were Michael to actually touch her. Given her undeniable response to him already, she was terrified to think that she wouldn't want to stop him.

She spun around appraisingly in the full length bedroom mirror, gauging her appearance. The silk fabric flowed over her curves like an emerald waterfall, the decorative beading catching the light just right to give the dress an element of sparkling beauty. The only remaining piece was the sash. It hung limp at her sides, giving the dress a loose, sagging look. But once the sash was tied and simply knotted at the base of her spine, it would accentuate the curve of her waist and hips. Unfortunately, she would have to ask Michael to do it.

She forced a hard swallow, steeling her determination to just ask him to tie the sash and head out for dinner. The door swung open on its hinges under her hand, revealing him in much the same position she had last seen him. Again, she couldn't stop the rake of her eyes over his body, noting all the right ways his tux complimented him.

"I'm afraid I need to ask your help." She worried her lipstick clad lip gingerly as she reached down to finger both ends of her sash, pulling them out to show him. "I can't reach."

A playful little smile curled about his face as he rose, abandoning his highball on the coffee table. He smoothed out the lines of his jacket as he crossed around the couch, coming to stop just inches behind her. A spicy musk invaded her senses with his arrival, compelling her to draw an involuntarily deep breath. He reached for the proffered ends of the sash, pulling them back, tight against the curve of her waist. She couldn't help but smile as she felt the dress take shape around her, feeling his hands at work, knotting the fabric.

Warmth radiated from his close presence through her thin dress, the occasional brush of his breath across the exposed skin of her back. Searing fingertips fell just above her hips, tracing slowly, purposefully, almost teasingly around her back, meeting at the base of her spine.

"What are you doing?" Her words came out on a rushed, almost nervous breath, startled and mesmerized by his sudden touch.

"Just smoothing out wrinkles." His brogue was a low, rough rumble in her ear. She sighed heavily, giving her head a reluctant shake, feeling the heat of his fingertips still lingering on her low back, right where the knot of her sash rested.

"It's a dangerous game you're playing." She didn't register her voice dropping to a breathy whisper, the pulse between her legs growing to a full out ache, her breasts rising with each breath, desperate for attention.

"It's only dangerous if you're tempted to play." His smell enveloped her, his breath teasing her shoulder as his hands lingered. Her eyes slid closed fighting back a pure whimper of need. "Come on, we mustn't keep dinner waiting." He stepped back, a chill racing down her spine to suddenly be so devoid of his body heat. Her head was spinning as she caught her breath, her body wound up from Michael's touch. Did he know what he had done to her?

xxx

He blew the smoke lazily past his lips, enjoying the mix of smoke and alcohol on his tongue. Arthur preferred not to smoke as a general rule—it was too identifiable—but this job was driving him to smoke with increased regularity. Besides, in this joint, he would sorely stand out if he wasn't shrouded in a cloud in a smoke.

It wasn't surprising Michael Flynn would chose to spend his time off in this joint. The cards were loose, the women were easy and the liquor flowed.

"Hey sugar," a woman with peroxide blonde curls and dark eyes looked down her mousy nose at him through thick lashes, "you look lonely."

"My friend is late." Arthur supplied offhand, huffing a light sigh of annoyance as her lips pursed in what she hoped was a tempting pout.

"Oh, well that's too bad," she shifted her shoulders, the tease of cleavage bared by her v-neck dress catching the light, "why don't I stay and keep you company."

"I can't afford you." His eyes fell to the glass on the table, raising it to his lips, draining the liquid.

"I think we both know that's a lie." She teased with a giggle, sliding closer towards his booth.

"Then take the hint." His eyes darted up to hers, sharp and serious, needing this woman to leave him alone. She froze, offense tightening the lines of her face as she recoiled, not used to rejection.

"You better watch it, mister," her voice was high was false bravado, clearly trying to put on a stronger front than she was capable, "or I'll have you kicked out." She swept away from the table without so much as another glance, trying to save face. Arthur doubted she really had such power in this place. Women who worked as she did were rarely treated as anything more than property. It was shameful, but the truth of the Depression usually was.

He let his eyes scan the room nonchalantly, appearing as nothing more than a drunk on the prowl. It wasn't hard to pick Michael's tall and lean form out of the crowd despite the fine cut of his tuxedo sans tie. That was the other interesting quality about this speakeasy—the obviously well-to-do's mixed with the common rabble. It was a universally accepted fact from Arthur's experience—alcohol brought everyone together in tough times.

Another cloud of smoke filled his vision, serving to hide his face more than it did to obscure his view. Michael looked in uncommonly good spirits this evening—taking a minute to talk shop with the bartender, offering a tempting smile to passing girls, effortlessly knocking back his drink. A thin, possibly malnourished, raven haired young woman with too much rouge gravitated towards Michael's side, his intense gaze and predatory smile now only reserved for her.

Arthur slid against the rough material of the booth, abandoning his empty glass, reaching for his hat. Michael looked comfortable enough at the bar in the worn leather stool, his left arm snug around the young woman's waist as Arthur approached his right side.

"What'll it be?" The bartender caught Arthur's eye as he dropped his hat to the bar top.

"Something strong." The greeting and smile at achieving surprising victory dripped off Arthur's words. Michael's shoulders imperceptibly stiffened, turning towards Arthur, weary disgust contorting his face.

"It's no coincidence you're here, St. Clair."

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Arthur mock chastised, watching Michael huff a nearly silent disbelieving laugh.

"Is that what we are?" Arthur dared to look away from Michael just long enough to accept his drink.

"Mickey," the high pitched whine of Michael's girl broke the space between them, "Mickey, it's been so long since I seen ya, and you promised…." She pulled enticingly at his black tux jacket, attempting to draw him away from Arthur and any trouble he threatened.

"Soon, Molly," Michael craned his neck, turning to brush the words against the pale skin of her neck, "but for now, allow me to introduce Arthur St. Clair." His crisp eyes flickered between Arthur and Molly. "Supposedly we're old friends, though as I recall, the last time we had a quiet drink together, he shot me," his hand surged forward, grabbing her high inside her thigh, eliciting an amused, shocked gasp from Molly, "he shot me right here."

"Only because your bullet failed to hit its mark," Arthur shook his head, not amused at Michael's antics, "I was under orders not to kill you that night; unlike you, apparently." Molly's eyes widened, not sure if she should actually believe both of their stories. Her eyes settled to Michael uncertainly, clinging harder to his left side, pushing her body further against his.

"Molly," Michael turned back to her with a honey-sweet smile, "be a doll and go away for a minute." Reluctance filled her eyes as her hands loosened their hold, nodding slowly.

"Only for you, Mickey." An alluring smile cracked the thin line of her lips. "Don't take too long." She removed herself from Michael's side, stepping away to give the men their privacy.

"What the hell do you want, St. Clair?" Michael faced the bar straight ahead, annoyed and all business as he sipped his drink.

"I have a job offer for you." A wry smirk cracked the hardened lines of Michael's face as he leveled Arthur with an incredulous glare.

"Please tell me why I would want to hear such an offer when I am already so gainfully employed?"

"Come now, Michael," Arthur chided, sliding onto the stool next to the Irishman, "your loose loyalties are the stuff of legend. The highest bidder always wins."

"And what does a down on his luck, woman-beating bootlegger have to offer me?" Arthur's eyes darkened.

"She had it coming," he simply answered, voice level, "your boss with figure that out sooner or later."

"We'll certainly see after tonight." Michael's words finished off with a small laugh.

"What's the special occasion tonight that gets you the night off?" Arthur already knew it was dinner with Peter Browning, but what did he have to say about Robert and Ariadne's relationship?

"Does it burn you, St. Clair?" Michael looked over with grim satisfaction in his pale eyes. "Does it burn you to know that Fischer succeeded where you failed? That Ariadne is about to become Mrs. Robert Fischer?" Arthur's heart clenched in his chest. How had he not known about that development? Clearly, the proposal hadn't happened yet, but it was going too soon. Tonight. He swallowed the sudden, thick lump in his throat.

"His mistake," Arthur grit out, bitterly, "if he's stupid enough to marry that wicked woman, then it should be easier than anticipated to reclaim control of the Backroom."

"Oh, don't tell me; surely you're not so desperate," Michael feigned excitement, annoyance coloring his words, "that's the 'job offer' you have for me—an insider to dismantle Fischer's Empire where it hits closest to home." Arthur said nothing, staring down into his glass, hoping this was the right move.

"Go ahead, St. Clair; tell me I'm wrong."

xxx

"My dear, you look simply stunning this evening." Robert's lips were warm and gentle against her cheek. "I was too quick to judge that gown initially. It is rather becoming on you."

"Thank you, Robert," she met his eyes, noting the lines of stress creasing his youthful face, "you are quite fetching yourself this evening." A look of relief seemed to wash over his face as he continued to fall into her doe eyes.

"It doesn't matter how I look with you at my side," he held his arm out, relaxing as she looped her arm through his, "we could conquer the world together, Ariadne. So long as I have you with me, I want to be the best man I can be. You deserve nothing less."

"Oh, Robert," she forced a soft little laugh as he guided her through the dining room, "you are a good man. You shouldn't doubt yourself." Normally she would have choked on her words, but there was something so desperate on his face, as if hearing something positive about his character was just the tonic he needed. His free hand rose to rest atop hers, squeezing it affectionately, drawing a deep breath to steel himself.

"I love you." He whispered softly, searching her face for any hint of hesitation.

"I love you, too." A pang of guilt wrenched through her heart on the words, hating herself for lying to him as such. She had really begun to worry of late how hard he would take her inevitable betrayal. His desire for her affection and acceptance had only grown more obvious in the days leading up to Browning's arrival. She guessed his earlier signs of stress were attributed to the pre-dinner meeting with Browning. But she thought Robert and Peter Browning were close? She let her smile widen as they stopped at a table occupied by a gray-haired, older gentleman with stern eyes and a worn disposition.

"Is this your famous Ariadne?" Browning's voice was gravely with age, his face agitated.

"Yes; Uncle Peter, may I present Miss Ariadne Blake." Robert's gaze turned proud, appreciative as he glanced back to her.

"Pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Browning," Ariadne's tone was all warm admiration. "Robert has nothing but high praise for you." Browning's eyes lifted in a half-hearted annoyed roll as he rose, extending a welcoming hand.

"I'm sure he has more to say than that." Robert's face tightened in annoyed lines as Ariadne reached for Browning's hand, returning a gentle shake. She dropped his hand, keeping her smile as Robert swiftly pulled out her chair, helping her sit before seating himself. Browning's scrutinizing, even disapproving eyes studied her as she unfolded her napkin, glancing to him with a polite smile.

"So, Robert," Browning started, clearly unimpressed, "where'd you find this one?"

"We met through a friend." Robert succinctly offered, perusing the menu. Ariadne did her best to feign disinterest as she looked over the entrees.

"She doesn't look like anyone our friends would associate with."

"Just what is that supposed to mean?" Robert looked over to Browning, displeasure and offense written in his handsome face. "I had hoped the three of us could have a nice dinner, devoid of any feelings relating to business. Ariadne is special to me, and I would like for you to recognize that."

"You can't separate business and family, Robert," Browning scolded, "especially not if you hope to take over the empire when your father dies. You know he's in bad health, yet you're here in Chicago with this floozy." Ariadne struggled to hide a wince, fighting to not let her smile falter. Peter Browning's opinion didn't matter, did it?

"How dare you," Robert's voice was controlled, lethal, calm, "you don't know anything about this woman, yet you would insult her to both of our faces without giving her a chance." Browning's eyes darted to hers with a lazy roll, as if to just appease Robert.

"What can I say," Browning turned back to Robert, still annoyed, "I'm an excellent judge of character." Ariadne debated if she should say anything, attempt to steer the conversation in the different direction.

"Will you please apologize?" Robert asked back unflinching, holding Browning's gaze.

"She doesn't seem bothered." Browning nodded her direction. She glanced up from her menu, a closed mouth smile forming on her face as her gaze darted between awkwardly between the two men. "A real bright one, you've got there."

"Stop insulting her," Robert hissed, gripping his menu tighter, "I wanted this to be a special evening, Uncle Peter."

"You should have thought about that before you moved on the Backroom. I have always supported you, Robert, but in this endeavor, I cannot. You broke the truce." Her ears perked on Browning's words. Were they unhappy that Robert had taken over the Backroom? She had always assumed he was here under his father's orders. Was that not necessarily the case?

"Maurice tolerated the truce because he was too told to fight. I, however, am just getting started and I will not see my inheritance suffer." Robert's voice was all collected cool as he stared Browning down with conviction in his ice blue eyes.

"Robert," Browning sighed, a combination of annoyance and displeasure, "if this is some desperate attempt to be your own man—"

"No; this is simply to be the man you and Maurice never were, and never believed I'd become. I knew of Ariadne when I moved on the Backroom, and now that she is with me, the world is ours." She stared sideways at Robert, wide eyed, unable to hide her instinctive reaction to his words. Robert turned to meet her gaze, a proud, dreamy haze clouding his vision. Had she pushed him too far? Had she pushed to lie too much? How devastated would this man be after she used him for information and left without a care?

Another pang of guilt shot through her heart knowing that wasn't true. She knew she couldn't leave without a care. Sure Robert was a criminal, threatened Mal to bend Dom to his will, but didn't everyone deserve some sympathy in the wake of apparent lifelong disapproval by their guardians?

"Typical," Browning's voice was that of long accepted disappointment, "I'll be sure not to mention that to Maurice when he asks about this visit."

"Frankly, I would be surprised if he remembered to ask about me at all, Uncle Peter," Robert's voice was raw with pain laced with anger, "but by all means, please don't restrain yourself. Tell the old man anything you want."

"It's alright, Robert." Ariadne couldn't stop the soft words of comfort as she looked to him pleadingly, wanting his icy eyes to meet hers, to break the tension across the table. "Please Robert," she implored gently, "can we not just enjoy the evening, as you said?" Robert turned to her slowly, his face relaxing to drink in the comfort flooding her sweet eyes. She reached a hand forward, wrapping around his on the tabletop, squeezing it reassuringly. "Surely this isn't how you wanted the evening to go."

"Of course not, my love," he did his best to return her hand squeeze, offering her a weak little smile, "I've had a lot of time to think about how this night should play out." His eyes settled with an air of finality to Browning, not caring about the air of sadness lurking in his aged eyes. "I had hoped, Uncle Peter, as you have been my only supporter up till now, that you could accept this. But I'm honestly not surprised. Maurice has made it abundantly clear I am a disappointing failure, and it was only a matter of time until you reached that conclusion yourself. So this is just one more disappointment to add to Maurice's list. I suppose it's good to know that when you report back to the old man, I won't have failed to live up to expectations." Browning blew a heavy sigh, tired and sad, maybe even heartbroken.

"You take it too far, Robert," Browning tried to placate, "this is about business."

"You said it yourself—family and business can't be separated," Robert continued, his confidence swelling from some hidden conviction, his surety increasingly appealing, "so what if I wanted to bring Ariadne into the family?" Her eyes widened, breath freezing in her chest.

"Robert?" Browning's eyes narrowed to an uncertain glare, his voice a low, warning growl.

"As I said earlier, I've thought a lot about tonight, and it seemed like the perfect night," Robert turned towards Ariadne with a smile, small and pensive, growing on his face, the tense set of his jaw relaxing away, "and I think it might still be." His voice had dropped to a soft, distant note, reaching inside his jacket to a hidden pocket. Her smile fell, all thought leaving her as he retrieved a small, black, velvet box.

"You have become my world, Ariadne Blake. Without you, none of this means anything. So I ask you, as a man in love with everything about you—from your love of architecture to your humble Missouri roots—will you marry me?"


	9. The surprise

**Oi. I'm not even sure where to start after all this time. Life got busy, the computer crashed and I lost the last 1.5 years' worth of writing. So I hope these last chapters continue to do the story justice. It took me awhile to recapture the feel and round out the story in the way I had planned. So if anyone is left still reading & waiting – I do apologize and I hope the wait hasn't been in vain. This story does have an end and I will keep doing all in my power to bring it about. **

**I apologize I haven't responded to reviews, either. Losing all that writing seriously soured my mood for a good long while. I will get to work on that now that this chapter is posted. As always, feedback is most welcome. Allons-y. **

**Chapter 9: The surprise **

The diamond caught the pale light that played over the bar, casting glittering sparkles of light over its mahogany top. She couldn't deny the ring was gorgeous, the diamond flawless. Clearly, Robert had put a bit of thought into the ring and the question. And the more she continued to look at it, the more she couldn't help but wonder exactly what she did to make him fall so hard, so fast for her.

She took another lazy drag on her cigarette, a steady stream of smoke passing her lips in the exhale. Last night had been such a whirl—first, the atrocious dinner Browning had ended swiftly with the unexpected proposal, and then falling into Robert's bed with nothing more than her engagement ring between them, welcoming his kiss, his touch, his body. She felt her cheeks flush in memory as disgust rotted her stomach. While far from unpleasant—in fact, it surprised her much she _had_ enjoyed herself—the cold light of dawn was not so kind.

Was it possible for someone to feel this bad, this guilty, this shameful? Lying to a man, accepting his proposal, sleeping with him? Was she really any better than the women on the street corner? The cigarette was familiar between her lips, the smoke soothing as her eyes fell closed. How could she possibly keep this up…and what about Arthur now?

What would Arthur say when he found out what she'd done and accepted? Sure, he had warned her he would hurt her, but was the hurt allowed to go the other way? With Robert's surprising, seeming impulsiveness, she could only hope he wouldn't push for a quick wedding. At least not quicker than Arthur, Dom and Eames could come up with a plan. She didn't even know if the information she provided to Jillian was helping them. Or if she was providing frequent enough updates. Even she hadn't expected to be so carefully watched like a hawk, but now that she was here, she couldn't find a way out. Memories of Arthur's handsome face weighed heavily on her mind, her heart welling with longing to just see him, hear his soothing, collected voice.

She drew a deep breath, summoning every last ounce of resolve. She made it this far and wouldn't let him down—she couldn't. She could do this; she _could_ do this; she _couldn't _do this.

"You look like you could use a drink." She turned on the smooth words, glancing down the bar to see Michael shedding his navy suit jacket to the bar top, a lazy, maybe even sympathetic grin on his handsome face.

"You're probably right." She offered a small smile in return, stubbing out the remains of her cigarette in the ashtray as he walked over to her behind the bar, reaching for a bottle.

"I can't say I'm an expert, but usually brides-to-be look a bit more excited on the day after their engagement." He placed two glasses on the bar top, filling them both halfway. She did her best to offer a reassuring smile, her eyes wandering over his tailored form—the vest that clung to his torso, the tie knotted ever so pristinely, the visibly shiny butt of a handgun in his shoulder holster.

"I'm just tired." She reached for the drink as he nudged it forward.

"Well naturally," his eyes lit with a suggestive air, his voice taking a seductive edge, "how else do you celebrate an engagement? Many congratulations." She locked to his pale green gaze that held no tease or jab, a natural, easy smile coming to her face. She couldn't help but see so much of Arthur in Michael that it was easy to relax under his smile and intense eyes.

"Thank you." Their glasses met with a soft clink, eyes unmoving as they each took a drink. She licked her lips in the aftermath, catching a stray drop. If she couldn't hide in Arthur's arms, losing herself in Michael's eyes and Irish brogue would just have to do. "So where have you been all afternoon? Do you not get involved with the accountants?" Robert had spent majority of the afternoon ensconced in a velvet booth behind her, looking over accounting books with men coming and going in regular intervals. Apparently there was more to do with the Fischer Empire in town than she had been lead to believe. Or was this a result of Browning's visit? She couldn't help but wonder If Arthur knew about the high levels of activity, and filed it away for her next report to Jillian.

"No, I don't care for bean counters most of the time. Robert knows it, and he didn't hire me for that aspect of his business." Her eyes involuntarily settled to the gun at his side; his eyes scanning the room to settle on Robert, nestled cozily in his booth not twenty feet away.

"You didn't answer my first question." She fixed him with a narrowed, playful glare, her smile matching.

"And you are too curious for your own good," his face and voice were playful, but a serious warning tinged his words, "haven't you heard the one about the cat?" She rolled her eyes.

"Of course," she all but scoffed, "but don't you think, if I'm to become your boss' wife, shouldn't I get to know the nature of the business he runs?" She hoped she didn't sound too eager, wondering if he would actually divulge something useful for her to pass along to Jillian. The slow-creeping, almost reluctant smile on his face told her she wasn't about to be so lucky.

"No, Ariadne," he said softly, "you shouldn't concern yourself with the business of dangerous men. It's safer for you." Her lips drew in to a thin line on that word. '_Safer_.' That seemed to be the common theme surrounding her—no matter who she was with—safety; keeping her safe and protected. If they would just tell her what she needed protection from, maybe she could handle it herself. She heaved a light sigh, taking a drink, resigning herself to their mercy.

"Oh, very well. Spoilsport." She teased him with a slight pout of her lips, loving his gentle, rumbling laugh as he pulled back for another drink.

"Hey, boss." The deep, booming voice of the doorman, Nick, caught the whole room's attention, silence falling, all eyes darting to the large, muscled man.

"What?" Robert's voice was tinged with annoyance, his blue eyes piercing from across the room.

"Arthur St. Clair is upstairs. Wants to come down for a word." Ariadne's heart stopped, her face freezing. Robert settled back against the plush velvet with something of an expectant, irritated sigh.

"Bring him down." Ariadne struggled to compose herself, a jumbled storm of feelings suddenly welling within her—surprise, fear, confusion, relief, happiness, concern. She lowered her eyes to her drink, swallowing its remains in attempt to steady herself. How could she face him and not give the whole game away? It'd been so long since she'd seen him and all she wanted to do was wrap him up in a big hug, and feel him hold her. She turned back to Michael, setting the empty glass on the bar and forcing a small, closed-mouth smile.

The relaxed lines of Michael's face tightened to their usual seriousness as he drained his drink, gliding silently around the bar to flank Robert's right side. No better place for a point man in a possible showdown. She glanced to the clock with a nervous swallow, noting only an hour left until the Backroom opened, hoping that would deter Robert from signaling Michael to kill Arthur. Oh, what was wrong with her? Conversing and flirting so innocently (and not so) with the men who could very easily kill her real love? The heavy creak of footsteps down the stairs stole her attention, her heart pounding in her ears.

Nick followed a step behind Arthur, guiding him as they worked their way across the room towards Robert. Ariadne's eyebrows drew to a tight knit as she studied Arthur's appearance, never recalling him looking so…loose? His suit jacket and vest buttons were all undone, hanging open at his side with his tie loosened at the neck, the top button of his shirt undone. He usually wore his fedora straight and low over his face, but today it was tilted back, giving a clear view of his impassive expression. He was still distractingly handsome, and the looser look was strangely appealing on him given his usual demeanor.

"He stinks of booze." Nick grumbled, wrapping a hand around Arthur's tricep to push him down in the booth opposite Robert, whose face had tightened to unwelcoming, displeased lines.

"You of all people shouldn't begrudge a man a drink," Arthur started slowly, his words holding just the faintest touch of a slur, "especially not given the circumstances."

"What do you want?" Robert huffed an annoyed breath, his eyes icy cold.

"I wanted to congratulate the _happy_ couple." Arthur's words were laced with angry disdain.

"Is that all?" His words perked hopefully, wanting this conversation to already end.

"Is there more to be said?" Arthur shrugged his shoulders uncertainly. "I offered her my heart, my life; but you must've offered her more."

"You hit her." Robert's words were deadly, his focus on Arthur just as intense. A wry smile twisted Arthur's face; the only movement from his otherwise still body across the table. Ariadne was sure everyone in the room could hear the thundering of her anxious heart in the heavy silence.

"Did she tell you why I hit her?" Arthur suddenly said, catching the nearly imperceptible roll of Robert's eyes.

"Take you anger elsewhere, St. Clair," Robert scolded, his voice surprisingly light given the tense situation, "I won't have you upsetting my fiancée."

"So she didn't tell you?" Arthur leaned around in the booth, spotting Ariadne over Robert's shoulder, his eyes instantly meeting hers across the room. "You lying, little whore." Her eyes widened, hurt exploding in her chest as she struggled to breathe. "I probably wasn't even your first fuck—"

"Don't you _ever_ speak that way to her again." Robert interrupted, his voice deadly as Michael's hand twitched at his side.

"I should have taken care of you years ago, St. Clair." The point man growled. "I still can." He looked down to his boss almost excitedly, a predatory smile that showed too many teeth menacing his face. Ariadne panicked, desperate that Robert would see some reason—the mess, the witnesses….

"No," Robert's voice was calm and steady, making her thankful at least one of them was seemingly keeping his head. "If anything, Ariadne should be given the satisfaction of dealing with him." Her eyes grew impossibly wider at the implication. A light, amused chuckle rumbled in Arthurs' throat, sounding oddly foreign in the tense atmosphere.

"She's got you good, doesn't she? No wonder she's wearing your ring." Arthur shook his head as if in disbelief. "But I believed her too. For months, actually. Everything was new and enjoyable—movie houses, silk sheets, pancakes and syrup. But that night…," Arthur's tone darkened, his eyes zeroing in on Robert, "that night you took everything from me when you took this place. She broke up with me on the spot after I told her everything. She said she didn't think we could make it—her money couldn't support us, and I wouldn't make it clerking." Her heart ached to hear her twisted words falling from his lips. "But she was very interested in your name, and suddenly very excited to learn that you had been masquerading as our bartender."

"Does this have a point?" Robert interrupted, his irritated words betrayed by the twinge of curiosity lingering in his crystalline eyes.

"Yes it does," Arthur crisply answered, "I wanted to know what her sudden interest in you was all about—so she told me. Figures you would try to move in on my girl as you simultaneously moved on the Backroom." Arthur leaned in across the table, assaulting Robert with the stink of alcohol on his breath. "And then I figured it out—she was going to move on you because now you had everything. She didn't want you when you were a nothing bartender. But suddenly, you displace me—reduce me down to nothing—and she wants you. It kind of makes you wonder how many more she went through to get to you and me, doesn't it."

"The idle speculations of a drunk man, St. Clair." Robert dismissed, steeling his eyes, the earlier hint of curiosity replaced with disgust. "You have nothing left in this world and you need someone to blame, for whatever reason."

"You don't feel the slightest bit guilty?" Arthur fired back, a hiccup catching the end of his words.

"You can't be serious?" Robert asked incredulously, staring back at Arthur.

"Why not? It's a fair question. You know what you took from us when you commandeered the Backroom."

"You're lucky I didn't make you walk the plank."

"Might as well have," Arthur returned, unconcerned, "you took my place and my girl in one fell swoop. What's left?"

"Is that why you're here?" Robert suddenly asked, an idea dawning on him. "You're here to…what? Apologize? Take her back?"

"It's hard to take someone back after marriage, isn't it?" Arthur sighed, seemingly defeated. "No, I came here to find out how you did it. What did you give her to make her choose you? A hunk of diamond? A particularly good fuck? An architecture degree?" Ariadne turned towards the bar, her face contorting in heartbreak, wanting to dissolve against the rich wood and release the emotion bursting within her. A choking sob escaped her lips unbidden, sounding as loud as a scream in the thick silence.

"Michael, would you, please?" Robert's voce was deadly calm as his point man moved, swiftly drawing his pistol. Ariadne winced at the sickening sound as the butt of the gun contacted with something hard, fleshy; her head sinking between her shoulders, wanting to scream.

"Now you will leave," Robert instructed as blood poured from Arthur's temple and nose, "and if I ever see you again, rest assured I will kill you myself." She gathered the will to turn back around, just in time to see Michael and Nick wrap hands around Arthur's arms, dragging him from the booth. His eyes found hers, infinitely cold and unforgiving, as blood flowed down his handsome face.

"I hope you're happy, Ariadne," he spate bitterly as he half walked, half let himself be dragged, "I hope this is what you want." He shook his head quickly, eyes flashing with hurt to further constrict her heart. "Good fucking luck to you." He forcibly shrugged off both Michael's and Nick's hands, breaking eye contact to disappear up the dark stairs.

Ariadne stared after him in shock, her heart shattered, her composure stripped. She sniffled, coming back to herself, waves of nausea rolling through her knotted stomach. What had she done? What had Arthur done?

Did he really think she meant to marry Robert? Did he really think she was just out to marry the man with more? All those things he'd said—movie houses, silk sheets and pancakes—were true; he had indeed opened up a whole new world for her. But that wasn't all he meant to her. Surely he knew that.

Tears spilled from her eyes as she continued to digest and attempt to unravel everything, barely hearing footsteps approach on the plush carpet.

"Oh, love," Robert's voice was warm, consoling as his arms encircled her, pulling her to his shoulder, "don't let him get to you." She sobbed heavier against him, grateful for someone to dissolve into. He rubbed a hand soothingly against her back as her tears soaked into his suit jacket. "But for your sake," he whispered against her ear, his voice cold, "I hope he's not right."

She tensed unbidden in Robert's embrace, suddenly feeling threatened.

"Why would he be?" She asked, her voice weak and strained.

"If you are my girl with no agenda, does he have a reason to lie to me?" Robert simply returned, watching her stressed face further dissolve.

"Oh Robert…," she sighed, her eyes red-rimmed, words breaking, "please don't doubt me. I came to you willingly—I'm marrying you because I want to. I'm not foolish enough to say 'yes' to something I don't want." She bit her lip nervously, almost wondering now if Robert was her last chance if Arthur was really finished with her.

"I hope to God that's true," his voice was strained, whispers of hurt lacing his tone as he looked down at her almost sadly, "I want to believe you."

"Then believe me." She whispered, reaching up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

"Michael," Robert said softly, gently, turning from her briefly, "take Ariadne back to the Sydney. See that she gets cleaned up and ready for dinner on time. The Waynes don't tolerate tardiness."

"Absolutely." She hesitated to turn around on Michael's word, knowing how ghastly her wet, runny eye makeup must look.

"Go with Michael, love," Robert brushed a kiss to her forehead, hands resting supportively on her arms as he pulled back with a small smile, "I need to finish up here and then I will meet you for dinner. Perhaps we'll take in a show afterwards to put this whole unfortunate afternoon behind us." She offered a weak nod, doing her best to muster a smile.

"Come on." Michael encouraged softly, his hand falling to her shoulder, guiding her off the barstool. Numbly she stood, letting the gentle strength of Michael's hand lead her through the tables, towards the stairs.

She sniffled again, trying to wipe at her eyes and face. The Penrose was so nice, and she hated to walk through the lobby with makeup streaked all down her face.

"You shouldn't care so much." Michael said absently, casting her a rather concerned glance as they neared the top of the stairs.

"Is that how you deal with life?" She tossed back, her voice worn, exhausted. "You just don't care about people?"

"I was talking about your makeup," he corrected, a hint of mirth in his voice, mirrored in the smile that cracked his rugged face, "it's not so bad, really."

"Oh sure," she scoffed, again brushing the back of knuckle along her cheek, dismayed at the black streak left behind, "everyone will notice."

"Here." He reached inside his suit jacket pocket, producing a neatly folded, starched handkerchief. Tears welled in her eyes again the sight, touched by his offer. She reached a shaky hand to take it, noticing how warm his fingers were.

"Thank you, Michael." She gave him a warm smile, finding it easy to melt under his pale eyed gaze, soft in the light.

"You need it more than I do right now." He watched her dab at her cheeks and eyes daintily, the white cloth staining with black smudges.

"Would you like it back?" She asked, looking at it almost embarrassedly.

"No, it's yours now." She smiled down at the handkerchief, oddly moved by something so simple. Maybe someone still did feel something for her after this afternoon, even if it was just friendship. She wanted to think at least one of these men wasn't using her or doubting her.

The warm glow from the lobby spilled onto the top stair landing as Michael opened the door, letting her pass before following. His arm curved around the top of her shoulders, draped supportively as he pulled her to his side.

"Cheer up, kiddo," he encouraged with a smile, "Robert knows better than to let this get to him. You shouldn't let it get to you either. Besides, the Waynes are insufferable bores, so you better be especially charming tonight." She glanced up at him, confusion and amusement etched on her face.

"You're just a paragon of comfort and help this evening," she said, warm affection coloring her words as her eyes saw only him, "is this the new Michael Flynn?"

"God, I hope not."


End file.
